“You broke my leg.”
“It’s not broken. I didn’t even hear that meaty pop, so I didn’t even dislocate it. One shape-change and you’ll be good as new.”
“You bitch, you sucker-punched me, you cheated again.”
“And that’s why you’re an amateur,” I said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Did you expect rules? A referee or a judge to step in and give a list of the do’s and don’ts for the fight?”
He just glared at me, and said, “Bitch.”
I smiled and said, “Pussy.”
Heat poured off him, and his brown eyes turned paler, golden brown—hyena brown. The Browning was just in my hand; muscle memory took over before I could even decide. I was already aiming at his head, right above his eyes. It was my best kill shot from the angle I had.
“Don’t shift, Kane, not here, not now,” I said; my voice was low and careful, because my finger was already on the trigger. No matter what gun you have, once your finger crosses that point, you treat all guns as if they have hair triggers, and be damned sure that if you pull, you want whatever you’re aiming at dead.
The heat spread through the room like someone had left the tap open on a really hot bath, and we were about to drown in it. “Silver bullets, Kane, you won’t heal a head shot.”
There was movement to my left. “No one move,” I said.
“Anita,” Asher said, “please,” and I felt him coming closer.
“Freeze where you are, Asher, or I swear to God I will shoot Kane and then turn on you.”
“Ma petite . . .”
“No, Jean-Claude, not this time. If Kane shifts I will shoot him. If Asher interferes, I will shoot him. That is the difference between amateurs and professionals. Amateurs whine about rules, fairness, and plead for mercy. Professionals know that there is only one rule—survival—violence is not fair, and there is no mercy.”
“Anita,” Nicky said, “if you kill Kane, fine, kill Asher, I’m fine with that, too, but you won’t be.”
I kept staring at Kane’s forehead, and that spot where the bullet would go. I’d shot people up close like this before. I knew the mechanics of it, and exactly what would happen. It was just a different face staring back at me.
“Ma petite . . .”
“Don’t.” That was Micah. “Let Nicky talk to her.” Hearing Micah’s voice helped me listen better to something outside the calm in my head. I felt nothing, staring down the barrel of my gun at Kane; nothing.
“You’re not alone out in the field, Anita,” Nicky said. “We got this regardless of what Kane does. You don’t have to kill him. If you wanted to kill him, I’d be okay with that, you know that.”
I whispered, “I know.”
“But I can feel what you’re feeling, and you don’t want to kill him. You’ve just gone quiet in your head, but your emotions are waiting outside that quiet. You don’t want the emotional fallout if you killed Asher, Anita. I think he’s a manipulative shit, but you love him, and Jean-Claude loves him more.”
“So not worth it,” I said, each word enunciated carefully between almost gritted teeth. I wasn’t really looking at Kane anymore, just at that point on his head where the bullet would go if I finished this.
“No, he’s not,” Nicky said, voice soft, and closer to me, but his closeness didn’t make me want to turn the gun on him and protect myself. Asher I didn’t trust not to do something stupid, but Nicky—he wouldn’t be stupid. He might be violent, but it would be on purpose, with a better reason than not thinking things through.
I drew back from the empty quiet in my head, and the pinpoint concentration that had narrowed down to the aim of my gun and my target, and realized that the energy that had been rolling off Kane was gone. I blinked and saw his brown eyes staring up at me. He’d pushed his beast back in its box. He was still holding his damaged leg, but he was trying to be as still as the injury would let him be, as if he were afraid to move too much, afraid of what I’d do if he did.
“Good,” I said, softly, “very good.”
“What’s good?” Nicky asked.
I eased my finger off the trigger and raised the gun toward the ceiling. I kept looking at Kane’s face, though. “Did you see your death in my face, Kane?”
“I thought you were going to kill me.”
“So did I,” I said. I put the Browning back in its holster at my side. I felt light and empty, not bad, but it was odd. I didn’t usually get to this point and not shoot someone. I felt weird, as if the process were incomplete. I’d tried to explain to friends the difference between what I did and what other cops did, and that was it. Most cops go whole careers and never draw their gun, or if they do, they still think more about saving lives than taking them, but I didn’t. When I drew my gun I almost always got to use it, and using it, for me, meant someone was dead. Legally, lawfully, no review board, no questions asked—dead. I was the Executioner long before I was Jean-Claude’s ma petite.
“Get him out of my sight. Let him heal, but I don’t need to see him do it.”
More guards came through the drapes, as if they’d been waiting for some signal that they could enter without spooking me into shooting Kane. They got their hands under his arms and helped him to his feet. He couldn’t stand, so in the end they formed a cradle with their arms and two of them carried him out of sight—toward medical, I guess. I honestly didn’t care, as long as it was away from me.