Pity was fast, but Beau was lightning. Before she hit the stone of the terrace, he tackled Selene, shielding her with his body. The bright morning disappeared, gone in a cloud of smoke.

Pity coughed and blinked away tears. Her ears rang as she pushed herself up, peripherally aware that little damage had been done. The small explosive was a common one, meant to disorient and disarm, not kill.

Except…

The Tin Man was gone, blown off the balcony. Three dull pops sounded behind her. When she twisted around, the other guard was on his knees, blood pouring from his chest. He collapsed as long black snakes of rope fell into view. She stumbled to her feet and looked up to see men in armor and helmets rappelling from the roof. As the first figure touched down on the terrace, she drew. Her shot caught him in the chest. He hit the edge of the railing and fell to the ground.

A few feet away, Sheridan was up, too, but dazed. Beau had his weapon drawn and an arm around Selene’s waist, supporting her. A thin line of blood ran down her face.

“Move!” he screamed, dragging Selene forward.

With her free hand, Pity grabbed Sheridan and pushed him ahead of her. She heard more boots hit the stone as they ran. Inside, Beau threw Selene behind the desk, turned, and fired. His shot zipped over Pity’s shoulder, hitting a man inches behind her. She hadn’t even seen him. She started for the desk, too, but staggered as a series of shots perforated the floor in front of her. This time, Sheridan reached for her, pulling her from the line of fire; clarity had returned to his face. They bolted a dozen yards and dove behind a pair of large stone planters.

Oh, Lord… oh, Lord…

Blood pounded in her veins as she pulled her other gun and clutched it to her chest. “Are you hurt?” Sheridan didn’t seem to hear her at first. She kicked him. “Hey!”

“No… no.”

“Good. Stay down!” She leaned low and peeked around the planter. Beau was crouched behind the desk, Selene beside him. In the archway to the terrace she counted eight attackers, all carrying rifles. None seemed to be looking her way.

They want Selene.

Beau pushed up his shirt cuff, revealing a dark metal band, and pressed something on it. With a hiss of air, the terrace partitioned off, a latticework of windows appearing where there had been open air a moment before. Two of the men were cut off outside. One of the inside attackers signaled; the others covered him as he peppered the windows with shots. White spiderwebs spread across the glass, but it didn’t break.

Six targets, she revised. Eleven bullets left, plus whatever Beau had. And the men were wearing body armor—the attacker Beau had shot was hunched over but still on his feet. She cursed under her breath.

The intruders gave up on the doors. “Drop your weapons and surrender!” one called out. “We’d like you alive, but dead’ll do!”

Pity’s grip tightened on her guns. Think.

Six targets, eleven shots… and body armor. Her bullets would barely put a dent in it. But it didn’t cover everything. Neck, joints, faces—all hard to protect. She would have to choose her shots wisely.

And if you want to walk away from this—the thought came to her in her mother’s voice, not with a parent’s timbre, but rather that of a battle-scarred veteran—you’d better shoot to kill.

Pity raised herself into a crouch.

“What are you doing?” hissed Sheridan.

“Shhh!”

She peeked out a little farther. Beau spotted her. He shook his head.

She ignored him, leaned out, and fired twice, aiming for the man who had spoken. His exposed face was her target, but the bullets glanced off his helmet. He fell to the ground, stunned.

The other five turned on her and fired.

“Shit!” Pity curled into a ball as bits of stone and dirt exploded around her, leaves raining down. Then it ceased, though she still heard shots. She scrambled around Sheridan to risk a glance from the other side of the planters. Another assassin was down, a pool of blood spreading around him.

Dead.

Beau hadn’t missed. Pity swore again, quietly.

Breathe. Think.

Sheridan pulled her back. “Pity, stop! You heard them—we can surrender!”

She shook him off. “Are you willing to risk your life to find out if they’re telling the truth?”

He didn’t answer.

Think.

The attackers no longer had the element of surprise. And with the impenetrable glass at their back and no cover, they were exposed. But they still have the numbers and the firepower. Pity cocked her guns. Any moment they’re going to realize that, rush Beau and Selene, and then us. Gotta keep them off-balance.

Nine shots left.

Inhale, aim. Exhale, shoot.

She rolled out from behind the planter, came up on one knee, and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

A heartbeat later she rolled back, bullets filling the space where she had been. She bit back a scream as a sudden, searing pain lanced through her calf. A red stain spread on the fabric of her pants.

One more assassin was dead. This time her aim had been better, the man’s left eye exploding in a telling spray of crimson. But her other shots had gone wide or hit armor. That left three and the stunned man, who might recover at any moment.

Pity swallowed the dry spit in her mouth and tried to tune out the throbbing pain in her leg. Staccato shots sounded. One of the remaining attackers was firing at the glass again, his partners covering him. As she watched, one pane gave way. Behind the desk, Beau’s gaze darted between the exits and Pity. Finally, it settled on her.

He raised his hand and signaled. Three targets.

She signaled back. Five bullets left.

His features tightened, but he tipped his head back toward the assassins. Chest tight, she nodded.

“Whatever you do,” she said to Sheridan, voice brittle with fear, “keep down until the shooting stops.”

“Pity.” His eyes pleaded with her. “You don’t need to do this.”

But she did. They were out of time.

The only thing left to do was to end things on their terms.