The man with the knife stopped. Turned.
Cassandra Blackwell was leaning against her Escalade. She hadn't collapsed.
Hadn't run. Hadn't called for help and hidden like a civilian.
She had leveled her compact pistol with a steady unwavering hand, aiming straight at the second attacker's face. Blood seeped through the sleeve of her jacket, dark and wet, dripping onto the asphalt.
But her gaze was cold. Calculating.
Completely void of fear.
"You take one more step toward that boy," Cass said, her voice deadly calm. "And I will stop you."
The attacker froze. Looked at the pistol.
Looked at his partner groaning on the ground, cradling his shattered arm. They had lost the element of surprise.
Lost the advantage. The gunshot, though suppressed, had drawn attention.
The back door of the roadhouse burst open. Pete the cook stood in the doorway wearing his white apron staring out into the rain with wide eyes.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Maybe a coincidence.
Maybe a passing patrol car responding to something else entirely. But the killers couldn't afford to find out.
"This ain't over." The second attacker spat.
The words came out tight with rage and pain. He grabbed his partner by the collar of his raincoat hauling him to his feet.
The injured shooter whimpered, his damaged arm hanging uselessly.
They scrambled toward the Dodge Charger moving fast despite the injuries. The Charger's engine roared to life.
Tires screamed on wet pavement spinning for purchase. The car shot backward, executed a sloppy J-turn that sent water spraying in all directions, and tore off into the night.
Headlights flicked on only after it was two blocks away disappearing into the rain and darkness like it had never existed.
Finn lay on the asphalt. Rain washed the blood from his face mixing with the oil and grime and runoff carrying everything away into the gutters.
His chest heaved. Every breath sent sharp stabbing pains through his broken ribs.
He felt cold. So incredibly cold.
Colder than he'd ever been in his life.
He tried to crawl back toward the shadows. Back to the safety of the dumpster.
Back to invisibility.
Footsteps approached. Soft, steady.
Cassandra Blackwell knelt beside him on the wet ground. She didn't care about the mud ruining her pants.
Didn't care about the blood dripping from her arm. She gently placed a warm hand on Finn's cheek stopping his desperate attempt to crawl away.
"Don't move, sweetheart. Don't move."
The hardness in her expression had vanished replaced by an intense, overwhelming maternal concern. She looked at his bruised, hollow cheeks, his ragged clothes, the bleeding gash on his head, the way his body shook with cold and shock, and broken ribs.
"You saved my life."
Finn choked out words through chattering teeth. "I have to go."
"Cops. I can't do cops."