I stood still as the tweaker, Roy, tucked his pistol into the greasy waistband of his jeans and strode toward me. Every muscle in my body screamed to move, to act, to unleash the furious, coiling thing that was thrashing against the inside of my ribs. But I held my ground, my gaze locked on Kira, on the unwavering black circle of the shotgun’s muzzle pressed against her spine. One wrong move, and she was gone.

  Don’t give Monica a reason. Don’t you dare.

  Roy’s approach was a slow, swaggering violation. He moved with the overconfidence of a rat who had just cornered a lion. He began rifling through my gear, his hands patting me down with a rough, unprofessional touch. His fingers, grimy and trembling with a tweaker’s energy, fumbled with the retention strap on my holster before pulling my service pistol free.

  There it goes. My last resort, now in the hands of a scumbag who had likely never cleaned a weapon in his life. I watched him admire it for a moment, a piece of city property that was now just another tool for his grubby little crime spree.

  He moved to the magazines on my vest, pulling each one free with a soft rip of velcro. Each one he extracted was another option stripped away, another nail in my tactical coffin. He unslung my rifle, letting out a low, appreciative whistle as he felt its weight.

  Shit. Can’t let him keep that. He’ll kill a dozen people with it before he runs out of ammo or luck.

  “Take off your vest,” Roy ordered, his tone dripping with a disdain he had not earned. With a heavy heart, I complied, my hands moving with a slow, deliberate calm I didn't feel. I unbuckled the straps and shrugged out of the kevlar, unclipping my gun belt and letting it fall to the asphalt with a heavy thud. My eyes flickered toward Kira, to Monica’s unwavering, predatory aim.

  “Put your hands together,” he snapped. He grabbed my own handcuffs from my belt. The cold steel clamped around my wrists, the teeth biting deep into my skin. Good. Let it hurt. Keep me focused.

  He bundled my gear together, my pistol, my rifle, my life’s work, and carelessly tossed it aside in a heap near the ambulance. A devious gleam sparkled in his eyes as he turned to Kira. “Now your turn, sweetie,” he leered, his gaze crawling over her in a way that made my stomach churn.

  He approached her, his movements greasy and overconfident. I watched his scabbed, trembling fingers fumble with the retention strap on her holster, finally pulling her pistol free and tucking it into his own belt. I saw Kira’s jaw clench, her body held in a state of rigid, perfect control. She was tolerating it, playing the part, but I could see the furious, competitive fire simmering just behind her eyes.

  Roy didn’t stop there. He began patting her down, his hands lingering for a sickening beat too long on her ribs and waist. It wasn’t a professional search. It was a violation disguised as one.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Don’t you fucking touch her. I squeezed my fists, the handcuffs digging deeper into my wrists, the pain a welcome distraction from the red haze creeping into the edges of my vision.

  His hands moved to her vest, his knuckles brushing against her chest as he ripped the velcro straps open with a loud rrrrip. He pulled the vest away from her body, his gaze dropping, a hungry, appreciative grin spreading across his face.

  Then, without warning, Roy’s hand shot out. He grabbed the front of Kira’s pants, his thumb hooking casually into her belt. She let out a sharp, involuntary gasp, a sound that was like a lit match in the gasoline soaked furnace of my rage.

  That’s it. That’s the line. You’re dead. No trial, no jail. Just dead.

  “Soon I’m going to have you gasping underneath me,” he said, lust thickening his voice, dripping with a dark, ugly promise that sealed his fate.

  “That’s enough for now, Roy,” Monica interrupted, her voice sharp and commanding. “Ammo and drugs first. Playtime later.”

  Thank fuck. A small, ugly flicker of relief cut through the rage. She’s in charge. She’s focused. Keep her focused on the play.

  “Come on, dead man,” he sneered at me, his attention finally shifting away from Kira. He gave her one last, lingering look. “If you behave, maybe I’ll let you watch.”

  The vulgarity was meant to provoke. It worked. I balled my fists in the handcuffs, the steel biting deep enough to draw blood, letting the pain ground me. If I act now, we are all dead. Focus, I coached myself. Your chance to act will come.

  Roy seized my arm, yanking me with a surprising strength toward the police cruiser. I cast a quick, reassuring look at Kira. A flicker of fierce, unwavering determination in her green eyes gave me hope, even amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf us. We will figure a way out of this.

  As we approached the back of the cruiser, I positioned myself to Roy’s right, a subtle shuffle of my feet. It was enough. The bulk of the vehicle’s frame now blocked Monica’s line of sight to him, if not to me. She could see me, but she couldn't see him. It was a small advantage, but it was all I had.

  I pressed the button on my belt key fob, stepping aside as the trunk popped open with a low creak.

  Roy leaned in eagerly, his eyes wide with a junkie’s greed. “Hey—”

  His words were cut off by a loud, percussive CRASH from the pile of burning vehicles beside the ambulance, the deafening sound of stressed metal finally giving way, echoing through the air like thunder. Roy turned slightly, his head swiveling toward the source of the noise.

  It was a split second. A gift from a chaotic world. But it was all I needed.

  The power from the System, the clean, humming energy that had replaced my exhaustion, surged through my arms. This is it. The stat boost. Time to see if it’s real.

  I flexed my hands, driving them apart within the cuffs. The metal bit deep into my wrists, tearing the skin, but I didn’t care. Harder. Stronger.

  With a sharp, clean SNAP, the chain connecting the cuffs gave way. The sound was lost in the crackle of the flames, but I felt it in my bones. Finally. The broken halves hung to my wrists but my hands were free.

  In the same fluid, unbroken motion, my hands shot up. They clamped onto the sides of Roy’s head just as he began to turn back toward me, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes, his mouth opening to form a question he would never get to ask. My grip was absolute.

  Twist. Hard. Follow through.

  The sickening pop and snap of vertebrae giving way was louder than the crackle of the flames, a wet, final sound that would echo in my nightmares for years.