Page 18 of Wraith’s Promise

"You're the babysitter?"

"That's right."

"Where's Wraith?"

"Like I said. Not available."

Scarface steps forward, trying to use his height to intimidate. He's got four inches on me easy, probably seventy pounds. "Listen, sweetheart. We're not here for you. We're here for the kid. You hand her over nice and quiet, and nobody has to get hurt. You make this difficult..." He lets the threat hang.

"I'm going to make this very difficult," I say pleasantly. "You might want to rethink your approach."

One of the others, the one with the baseball bat, laughs. "You hearing this? Little girl thinks she's gonna stop all five of us."

"I don't think anything," I correct. "I know exactly what I'm capable of. Question is whether you're smart enough to walk away before you find out."

Scarface's expression darkens. "Last chance. Get out of the way or we move you."

"Come try."

He reaches for me. Big mistake, telegraph move, no subtlety, and I respond exactly the way I've been trained to respond when someone bigger tries to use size as a weapon. I catch his wrist, rotate under his arm, use his own momentum and bodyweight against him. Three seconds and he's face-down on the porch with his arm locked behind his back at an angle that makes him scream.

The other four freeze, genuinely shocked now.

"Anyone else?" I ask, keeping pressure on Scarface's shoulder while scanning the others for their next move.

Then everything happens at once.

Baseball Bat swings at my head and I have to release Scarface to avoid it. I drop low, let the bat whistle over me, but Crowbar is already moving in from my left. His weapon catches me across the shoulder. Not a direct hit but enough to send pain shooting down my arm and knock me off balance.

One of the armed ones grabs me from behind, arms around my torso, lifting me off my feet. I drive my elbow back into his ribs, once, twice, hear him grunt but he doesn't let go. His grip is strong, and I'm trapped.

Scarface is getting up, face twisted with rage, and Baseball Bat is raising his weapon again, and I'm calculating angles and odds and realizing that five on one with weapons is bad math no matter how good I am, that I might have made a tactical error….

Footsteps thunder down the stairs.

Dean explodes into the living room like something unleashed, like violence given human form, and the change in him is so absolute and terrifying that even I freeze for half a second.

This isn't the smart planner who makes coffee in the morning. This isn't the gentle father who reads bedtime stories. This is someone else, someone primal and utterly ruthless.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't warn them, doesn't threaten. He just moves.

The guy holding me is his first target. Dean crosses the living room in three strides and hits him with his shoulder, full bodyweight behind it, and the impact is so hard I feel the guy's ribs crack through his body into mine.

His arms release me instantly and I drop to the porch, rolling away as Dean follows the guy down, drives his fist into his face once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Blood sprays, and the guy goes limp.

Baseball Bat swings at Dean. Dean catches the bat mid-swing with his bare hand. I watch his knuckles go white with the force of the grip, and rips it away like taking a toy from a child. Then he swings it himself, catches the guy across the knee with a crack that makes me wince. The guy screams and goes down.

Scarface pulls a gun. Gets it halfway raised before Dean is on him, one hand deflecting the weapon up and away, the other hand, formed into a rigid strike, driving into Scarface's throat. The gun goes off, bullet punching harmlessly into the porch roof, and then Scarface is choking, gasping, dropping the weapon to clutch at his crushed windpipe.

Three down. Two remaining.

Crowbar and the last armed one rush Dean simultaneously. Better tactics, harder to defend against. But Dean doesn't defend. He attacks. Meets them head-on with a violence that's absolutely calculated and absolutely brutal.

He catches Crowbar's weapon mid-swing, uses the man's own momentum to spin him around and drive him face-first into the porch railing. There's a sound like breaking wood and breaking bone all at once. Crowbar slides down the railing and doesn't move.

The last armed one has his gun out, pointed at Dean from three feet away. "Don't fucking move!"

Dean looks at him. Just looks at him. And there's something in his eyes, something cold and completely unafraid, that makes the guy's hand start to shake.