The one holding the gun. The one about to end Cassandra Blackwell's life.
The heavy steel connected hard with the shooter's arm. The weapon discharged at the exact moment of impact.
The suppressor reduced the gunshot to a sharp metallic snap. Finn's strike knocked the shot off its intended trajectory, and the bullet missed Cass's heart.
It missed her lung and grazed her left shoulder instead, tearing through the leather jacket and leaving a painful wound.
Cass stumbled backward against the Escalade gasping in pain. The briefcase dropped to the ground with a heavy metallic thud.
Blood began seeping through the torn leather of her jacket, dark and wet.
The shooter shrieked, a high animal sound of agony. The suppressed pistol clattered to the asphalt as the shooter's arm was badly injured.
He collapsed to his knees, clutching it in shock and pain.
The second man, caught completely off guard by the sudden interference, reacted with brutal efficiency. He was massive, 6 feet 4 inches, easily 240 pounds.
He lunged at Finn with the kind of speed that only came from years of training and violence. His fist came around in a haymaker that had all of his considerable weight behind it.
The impact caught Finn on the side of his head like a sledgehammer. Finn's vision exploded into cascading white stars.
The world tilted sideways. Sound became muffled, distant, like he was underwater.
The force of the blow lifted him completely off his feet and sent him crashing onto the unforgiving asphalt.
He hit the ground hard. His ribs, already weak from malnutrition, cracked under the impact.
Three of them. Sharp, stabbing pain that made it impossible to breathe.
He skidded across the wet pavement, his hands tearing open on the rough surface, the tire iron clattering away into the darkness.
"Kill the kid. Get the case."
The words came from far away. Through water.
Through fog.
Finn tried to push himself up. His arms wouldn't cooperate.
His head swam with dizziness and nausea. Blood ran from a gash above his eyebrow and into his left eye, blurring his vision.
He could taste copper and salt. Rain mixed with blood.
Cold seeped into his bones.
This was how he was going to die. Alone on wet asphalt in a roadhouse parking lot.
Beaten to death by a professional killer for the crime of trying to save someone. At least he tried this time.
At least he didn't run. At least his mother would be proud.
Footsteps approached. Heavy boots on pavement.
The second man loomed over him, reaching inside his coat. Drawing something.
A hunting knife. The man stepped over his injured partner, advancing on Finn with a calm methodical purpose of someone who had killed before.
And would sleep just fine afterward.
Finn struggled to push himself up, his head swimming. His ribs screaming.
Blood blinding him.
"Hey!" The voice cracked like a whip across the parking lot.