She ripped her hand free—claws tearing out chunks of charred flesh—and spun toward the fourth man.
He raised his rifle. She was faster. Her legs came up in a scissor motion, thighs clamping around his neck from opposite sides.
I heard the vertebrae crack—three distinct pops like someone snapping thick branches. His head lolled forward at an angle necks weren't designed for. She released him and he crumpled, body twitching as his severed spinal cord sent random electrical impulses to limbs that no longer received coherent signals.
Urine spread across his tactical pants as his bladder released.
The fifth man in their group made the mistake of standing his ground, rifle raised, controlled bursts.
The bullets sparked off Ava's shield. She closed the distance in three steps—her shield flaring each time a round hit it—and drove both knives into his gut, just above the belt.
Then she pulled them apart horizontally, like opening curtains.
