In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

there was that cold, hard center of him that wanted the fight, and the blood.
    Leading with his weapon, he started to ease around a corner when the scream, the sound of tumbling bodies, broke his concentration for an instant.
    In that instant the blast seared across the top of his shoulder, singeing skin, tearing pain. He smelled blood, burned flesh, and--gripping
the weapon in his left hand now--shot out streams, somersaulting under them.
    Glass imploded. Shards flew. He saw a blast knock his opponent back, and was on him like a dog.
    Eve lay at the base of the steps in Inga’s parlor, body vibrating with pain, hands slick with blood. The knife was still in her hand, gripped as if her fingers had welded around it. Isenberry was beneath her, their faces so close Eve could see the life drain out of her eyes.
    She heard the child under the sofa whimpering, but it was like a dream. Blood, death, the knife hot in her hand.
    She heard footsteps rushing down the stairs and forced herself to roll off Isenberry.
    Pain screamed through her arm, her shoulder, so her vision wavered. She saw a room washed with red light, heard herself pleading for mercy.
    “Lieutenant.” Summerset crouched until she saw his face. “Let me see where you’re injured.”
    “Don’t touch me.” She lifted the knife, showed him the blade. “Don’t touch me.”
    She saw the child huddled under the sofa, face white. White so that some of the blood that had spilled on the fall dotted it like red freckles.
    She saw the eyes, glassy with shock. Somehow they were her own eyes.
    She pushed herself up, stumbled into the kitchen.
    He was alive. Blood on him, too. Well, there was always blood. But Roarke was alive, standing up now, turning toward her.
    She shook her head, dropped to her knees as her head spun and her legs trembled. And crawled the last few feet to where Kirkendall was sprawled.
    Blood on him, too. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet. She turned the knife in her hand, gripping it blade down.
    Was her arm broken? Had she heard it snap? The pain was there, but it was like a memory. If she put the knife in him, if she drove it through him, again and again, knowing what she did, feeling what she did, would the pain go away?
    She watched the blood drip from her fingers and knew she could do it. She could, and maybe it would end.
    Killer of children, raper of the weak. Why was a cage good enough?
    She laid the point over his heart and her hand shook. It shook until her arm shook, until her heart shook. Then she drew it back.
    Pushing up to her knees, she managed to shove the knife into her belt. “I’ve got men down. We need the MTs.”
    “Eve.”
    “Not now.” There was a sob--or it might’ve been a scream--trying to claw out of her throat. “Baxter went around back. He’s down. I don’t know if he’s still alive.”
    “Cops out front were stunned. I don’t know how bad, but they were alive.”
    “I need to check on Baxter.”
    “In a minute. You’re bleeding.”
    “He--” No, no not he. “She caught me a little. The fall was worse. I think I dislocated the shoulder.”
    “Let’s have a look.” He was gentle, helping her to her feet, and still she went pale.
    “Get a good hold,” she told him.
    “Baby, you’d do better with a blocker first.”
    She shook her head. “Get a good hold.” She got a strong grip on him as well, hissing out three readying breaths as she stared into his eyes.
    Wild blue eyes, concentrate.
    And with a jerk, one that brought her stomach to the base of her throat, turned her vision bright white, he snapped the shoulder back in place.
    “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She caught her breath, nearly nodded, and was grateful he was holding her upright. “Okay. That’s okay. It’s better.”
    And she’d needed the jolt, she thought, not just to dull the pain in the shoulder, but to bring her back, fully, to where she was.
    “The kid,” she began.
    “Summerset.”
    He came out with Nixie clinging to his neck. “She hasn’t been hurt.” There was the faintest of tremors in his voice. “Only frightened. She needs to be taken out of here.”
    “I want to see him.” Nixie’s voice was thick when she lifted her face from Summerset’s neck. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes still streaming. But they met Eve’s. “I want to see who killed my family. Dallas said I could.”
    “Bring her over here.”
    “I don’t think--”
    “I’m not asking you to think.” Eve crossed over herself, and when