Her mother had refused to tell her what that thing was, no matter how many years passed and how many times they had to run. Her mother was dead now. Buried. So it was too late for answers. And Amber was alone, a freak who couldn't die and whose every injury healed within hours.
She dropped to her knees as a bullet grazed the edge of the mattress, sending bits of foam and cloth in all directions.
Going down flat on her belly, she fired straight ahead under the bed, a clean shot through the leader's ankle.
But he didn't fall.
His feet left the floor as he dived overtop the box spring, leaving spots of blood dotted with shiny white chips of bone behind on the pale wood floor. His momentum sent the mattress toppling against the wall.
Amber rolled out of the way and surged to her feet to dart around the foot of the bed. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement in the mirror. A fourth guy coming through the apartment door? Or was it just the third one moving around?
No time to find out.
She spun to face slicked-back hair and gold chains and a gun.
Their eyes met.
Something hit her left shoulder, a dull thud. But she held her place.
Aim. Exhale. Squeeze.
Her bullet went in just above his left eye.
Blood and tissue splattered her beige wall.
She fired again. The insurance shot. More blood. More splatter.
Don't look. Don't think about it.
She felt dizzy. Sick. She'd never been this close. Never had to kill anyone. Never had to actually fire her gun at anything that lived and breathed.
Always before this, she'd had a chance to run.
Now, she'd killed two men.
Forcing herself to take slow breaths, she turned and looked to the open bedroom door, expecting to see the last guy framed in the entry.
No one there.
She had the horrible feeling that it was only the element of surprise that had saved her so far. She doubted they'd expected her to fight back. Or to have a gun.
The element of surprise had been expended.
She shook her head to clear the buzzing, then pressed her hand to her shoulder. It came away streaked in blood.
Not good.
Glancing around, she saw the purple silk scarf she'd bought months ago because she'd liked the color, but never worn. It was draped where she'd left it, over the bedside lampshade. She grabbed it and wrapped her shoulder as tight as she could manage using one hand and her teeth, her gaze locked on the bedroom door.
There was no outcry from the bar below, which meant that either no one had heard the shots, or they'd decided it was all part of the show.
But the guy in the other room had to have heard them.
Which meant he was forewarned. He knew she had a weapon. And he knew she would use it.
Maybe that was why he hadn't come tearing in here. He was waiting out there. Waiting for her to make a mistake.
She glanced at the mirror. The angle was wrong. She couldn't see the living room, just the splintered front door and the entryway. She couldn't see the third hunter, and she didn't know if there was a fourth.
Pressing tight to the wall, she peered around the bedroom door, her palms slick, a trickle of cold sweat snaking between her breasts.
There was a fourth. She caught a glimpse of his back, his raised arm and his fingers curled tight around the third hunter's throat. She had a fleeting impression of a dark jacket and dark hair and not much else before she jerked back and stood with her palms flat against the wall and her chest heaving.
Were they fighting among themselves? She couldn't credit that. More likely, the late arrival was a new player entirely. The rules of the game had just shifted and she was left reeling.
She needed to get out of here. And if she were smart, she'd kill both those men out there to make certain they didn't follow. The thought almost made her dry heave. It was one thing to kill in self-defense, quite another to shoot a man in the back.
Carefully, she twisted and leaned to look out once more.
The band downstairs ended the set, leaving an instant of comparative quiet.
The man in the black jacket tightened his hold on the hunter's throat. Then he formed a claw with the fingers of his left hand and rammed them through the hunter's chest.
Amber pressed the back of her fist against her mouth as the sound of ribs snapping filled the silence.
The hunter's mouth opened in a soundless scream, as though the breath had been stolen from his lungs. The fist-sized hole in his chest might explain that.
She couldn't move. Couldn't look away. Could only watch in horror as the guy with his back to her rooted around in the hunter's chest and tore out his heart with a vicious yank.
A crimson arc sprayed the wall.
He held the still-pulsing heart in his fist, blood dripping to the floor, then he shoved it into…something…a pocket? A pouch? She couldn't see from this angle.
Move. She needed to move. But her feet wouldn't obey her silent command. Terror held her rooted.
There was blood everywhere. The floor. The wall. The hunter's clothing.