Читать книгу Dead Aim - Anne Woodard - Страница 10

Instinct saved her.

Maggie ducked, then pivoted, swinging the only weapons immediately available—the trash bags she held in each hand.

The first hit and bounced off.

Her attacker, already off balance with the momentum of his swing, tried to dodge. The move made him stagger, then fall to one knee. Before he had a chance to realize what had hit him, she clobbered him with the second bag.

That one was heavier. Instead of bouncing off, it ripped, showering him in wet coffee grounds, sopping paper towels and napkins and the mushed remains of uneaten food.

Maggie had already released the first bag. When she let go of the second, it still contained enough trash that it plopped on the ground in front of him rather than flying off into the shadows.

Her attacker cursed, surged to his feet and stepped squarely in the slippery mess. His feet were already sliding out from under him when she swung back around and kicked him in the rear.

“Maggie! Behind you!”

Rick’s shouted warning made her duck and roll just as something long and heavy hissed down, slicing through the space she’d occupied an instant before. She completed her roll and was on her feet before the second attacker could recover.

Behind her, she caught the wet sound that a fist made when it connected, hard, with bare flesh and soft bone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man try to recover from the first hit, then stagger as Rick landed a second, harder blow to the jaw.

She didn’t have time to spare another glance—the first man had recovered his balance and was coming after her again.

She ducked, feinted right, then spun left, but not fast enough. The weighted pipe he was swinging caught her on the left shoulder.

It was a glancing blow, but it hit with enough force to draw a grunt of pain and send her to knees.

He’d expected her to roll away. Instead, she lunged toward him, low and fast. The heel of her hand connected where she’d aimed—right on his kneecap, where the force of the blow should at least knock him down if it didn’t cripple him outright.

She felt bone crunch on impact.

Cripple him, then. Good. That helped.

She rolled away, got to her feet, then spun and kicked with all her might.

She’d been aiming for his other knee, but this guy was a bully, not a trained fighter. Instead of preparing to counter her next blow, he was folding in on himself, reaching for his injured knee.

Her foot connected with his ribs. It wasn’t a well-placed blow, and she was still too off balance to put a lot of force behind it, but it was enough. He let out his breath in an explosive gasp of pain and dropped, then rolled away, out of reach.

Maggie turned, ready to help Rick, only to find he’d flattened his opponent and was already shoving the guy onto his face. The hold Rick had on the fellow’s arm, which he’d twisted up behind his back, assured a groaning compliance.