Preface
Emily
I had hoped dying would be less painful.
It hurt like a bitch. But even worse than the physical pain was seeing Tamir’s chilling expression as he pulled the trigger. No remorse, no conflict, no question. With a single twitch of his finger, I was flying backward onto the asphalt, his callous glare ripping through me far more ruthlessly than any bullet.
In such a short amount of time, my treacherous heart had latched onto him. He’d slipped into my bloodstream like oxygen bonded with my own blood until there was no eradicating him from my system.
Despite every warning and logical argument presented by my brain, my heart had forged ahead, leading me down an inevitable path to this exact point in time.
To my death.
I couldn’t say I was all that surprised. From the minute I ran, I knew my life was over. I was just glad I was able to take out some of the evil in the world while I had the chance.
With a renewed sense of freedom in my heart, my eyelids drifted shut.
Chapter 1
Emily
It wasn’t just cold out. It was “pack up your shit and move to Florida” cold out. It was “question every life decision you’ve ever made to end up in this godforsaken hellhole” cold out.
Clearly, I’d made some poor freaking choices.
It wasn’t the dead of winter. We’d barely cracked the door on November, but at just six in the evening, my lungs winced from the cold every time I took a breath. It was no wonder the entire population of retirees fled the East Coast every fall for the sunny shores of Florida. Temperatures this cold made even my twenty-six-year-old joints feel arthritic.
Arctic winters were the one drawback that almost kept me from making the move to the Big Apple. At least five months out of the year, you had to dress like that kid from A Christmas Story just to keep from dying. Not my ideal scenario, but after careful consideration, I had decided the city boasted enough pros to outweigh the one major con.
Or so I thought before I’d experienced said con. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
An early storm was supposed to push through during the week, but it was just my luck the cold had already set in. I hadn’t made time to buy a winter wardrobe. That meant I was stuck in my leggings and a jacket without a hat, scarf, or gloves, debating the likely onset of frostbite and how long it would take me to recover from the loss of my extremities.
I’d have to make room on my to-do list tomorrow to grab some essentials, assuming I survived until then. I hunched my shoulders and tucked my chin down into my jacket to keep my chattering jaw from cracking a tooth before I reached the Krav Maga studio.
I went to classes three times a week—as often as my shifts at the restaurant allowed. It had been three months since I started the self-defense training, but I wasn’t sure I’d made a lick of progress. The instructors had told me I was getting better, but when I saw some of the other students spar, I felt horribly incompetent. There was one woman, in particular, who gave me chills to watch. She often grappled with my main instructor, Tamir, right before our class, which happened to be the case today.
A warm gush of air enveloped me as I scurried inside the brightly lit studio. I shook away the layer of bitter cold that clung to me like the residue of a bad dream and immediately zeroed in on the two individuals training at the far end of the large room. Over and over, Tamir and the woman struck at one another, taking turns attacking and defending without any discernable rhyme or reason. But their movements had a system, a flow only they seemed to understand, almost like dancers. An invisible energy connected them, linking their bodies in an effortless rhythm.
She was my hero.
Sure, Tamir could fight just as well as she could, but a woman holding her own against a man was awe-inspiring. How often did you come across a woman who could go blow for blow in a fight against a man? Maybe in the movies, but not often in everyday life. As far as I was concerned, she was a living legend.
I found a place well away from the door to set down my jacket and gym bag, hardly taking my eyes from the woman as she transitioned smoothly from a defensive block into a wicked frontal assault. Tamir had at least fifty pounds of muscle on her, but the woman didn’t let that put her at a disadvantage. She was quick, vigilant, and didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. Of course, they were just training, so she didn’t actually follow through with the particularly unsavory strikes, but it was easy to tell the curvy beauty would be vicious if put to the test.
I wanted to be her for more than one reason. First, her skill was unparalleled by any woman I’d seen at the studio or anywhere else, and second, because she garnered instant respect from every man in the room. It was palpable. No one would dare treat her with disrespect or objectify her. She was power and grace personified. A warrior among peasants.
I had no clue how many days, weeks, years I’d have to train to reach her skill level, but one of these days, I’d get there. I wouldn’t quit unless it was the only option.
A year ago, it never would have occurred to me to learn self-defense, but things changed. We either adapted or we died—that was just life. I had chosen to adapt, which meant learning to defend myself. I had no doubt I would follow through if my crap luck didn’t get in the way first. And considering my track record, it was entirely possible.
Tamir and the woman called an end to their session, leaning against the wall and drinking from their water bottles. Now that they weren’t preoccupied with sparring, I turned away to keep from staring. A group of my classmates gathered along the mirrored wall across from me. After greeting one another, they conversed about their days and the changing weather.
I didn’t go over to say hello. It was just easier to avoid conversation than to tiptoe around subjects and gloss over questions with a thick coat of ambiguity. Sometimes, when I felt particularly lonely, I’d try to engage my fellow students, but it always left me feeling like a fraud. I wore a sugarcoated smile on the outside, but on the inside, I clung to each word like a miserly old man refusing to part with a single cent he owned.
Words were knowledge, and every conversation I had was potential ammunition in the wrong hands. I saw small talk as a series of landmines, each one a rigorous exercise in self-control.
When Jeff, the car salesman, gleefully told the others about the new job he’d acquired and how the hours of the old job made it hard to check in on his ailing mother, his words were unfiltered. Honest and forthright. There was no threat to Jeff if he said the wrong thing. He was simply happy to share his good news. Each class was mainly comprised of the same core group of people, so they grew to know one another, often inquiring about sick relatives or following up on stories told in prior classes. A camaraderie existed among them.
How could I feel a part of that when they knew so little about me? I couldn’t. Every question directed my way was another reminder of the lies I’d told and how complex my life had become. A reminder that no matter how well I camouflaged myself, I wasn’t like the people around me.
I used to be, to some extent, but anymore, I found I couldn’t relate to them. The course of events my life had taken changed my perspective in a fundamental way that couldn’t be undone. I didn’t see things the way they did, and I certainly couldn’t allow them to see me. The real me.
Instead, I kept my comments superficial and my smiles broad, hoping to compensate for my lack of substantive contribution to the group. If they thought I was pretty and sweet, chances were, they wouldn’t examine what I said too closely. Blending in was far more important than confiding in friends. I was there to learn self-defense, not socialize.