Badger to the Bone (Honey Badger Chronicles #3) - Shelly Laurenston Page 0,10

order, Max went out of her way to do the exact opposite or, at the very least, to let Stevie believe she’d done the exact opposite. Just to piss the kid off. And that was her sister. Imagine if some guy she didn’t know, who had never saved her life and thought he was in charge simply because of his rank, tried to give her orders . . .

Nope, nope. The regimented life was not for Max. She needed at least the illusion that she was free to do what she wanted. That was important to her, even if it was a lie.

Getting to one knee, the cat raised his weapon and shot. Men went down, one after another, hit either in the head or face, each careful shot avoiding the protective vests altogether.

Max was impressed. She’d only ever seen her sister handle a gun that well. Charlie was still better, but that was because no one matched her skill level.

“We need to get out of here,” the cat told her, and Max saw from her spot under the table that more men were running toward the hangar from outside, automatic weapons already drawn.

She looked around while the cat continued to fire, stopping only to reload. She saw a door that led to offices in the back of the hangar. If she could get the cat back there, they could wait it out until her backup arrived. Because—as she’d learned from her sister a long time ago—she always had backup.

As Max started to pull herself out from under the table, she saw that one of the shooters was smarter than the others. Instead of trying to hit the cat with a spray of bullets, he aimed above the table and hit the chains that held one of the long fluorescent lights above their heads. The cat turned, ready to shoot the mercenary, but the light crashed down, ramming him in the back of the head, knocking him down and out.

The mercenary ran forward and re-aimed, about to shoot the cat at point-blank range. Max, now out from under the table—but without her knife—charged forward and launched herself at the shooter. Slamming into him, she dug her claws into his shoulders and took him to the floor with one hit. She unleashed her fangs and bit into the side of his neck, ripping out his artery in one move.

When she got to her feet, she spit the blood and flesh into the face of the closest mercenary, shocking him long enough for her to snatch his military-grade knife from its holster. She cut that one’s throat and dashed to the next closest. That one opened fire and Max dropped to her knees so that she slid across the smooth floor and into his legs. She shoved the blade into one of his thighs, opening the artery buried there.

When he dropped, she grabbed his body and used it as a shield against the fresh round of gunfire sprayed exactly where she was kneeling.

But a stray bullet grazed her leg and, at that point, Max got a little angry. Because if she got shot, she’d have to explain to Charlie how that happened. She could dismiss lacerations and bruises, but not bullet wounds. Those she couldn’t explain away, which meant that now she’d have to get very nasty . . .

* * *

The agony in his head blinded him, made him sick. Zé couldn’t believe how painful it was. He felt weak, confused. He just wanted to go to sleep. But he knew he had to help . . . somebody. For some reason. It was all a bit sketchy, but he didn’t have the time or ability to figure out why he was doing what he felt he needed to do; he just knew he had to do it. Now. Something.

Yeah, he was confused, but . . . oh well.

Zé turned over and began to drag himself out from under the debris. He lifted his head, blinked hard once . . . twice . . . Then he watched as a pretty Asian woman launched herself into several armed men who had been firing directly at her. And, as she moved through the air, she changed from a woman into a . . . rat? Was that a giant rat? Like the capybara? No. He didn’t think so. He’d grown up in the South Bronx. He knew a rat when he saw one, and that was definitely not a rat. But it