She cocked the hammer and fired again. This time, one of the men pitched forward like a crash test dummy. He tumbled on the dirt and lay there motionless.
Clint shouted to his friends. “She’s shooting Clyde’s pistol and only has three shots left. We should rush her. She can’t get all of us.”
Danya would have preferred to wait until they were closer, and ambush the men. But she needed to keep them focused on her actions so Flynn could search the vehicles, and with a little luck, find the keys in one. The short four-inch barrel was a significant handicap at this extended distance, but she had no choice.
The roar from the revolver was wicked, as was the muzzle blast and recoil which pushed the gun high. The shot missed, kicking up dust about five yards behind Clint. She rolled her head, feeling tension relieved from her neck.
The three men spread apart, preparing to charge the hangar. She aimed, gently applying pressure to the trigger. The gun’s mechanism was well-crafted, and she felt no creep at all until the trigger broke and released the hammer. Boom!
Clint missed a step and leaned to the side. He reached a hand down to his hip and grimaced in pain at the grazing wound, but continued forward.
Down to the last bullet, she lined up on the nearest man. He was a beefy man, broad across the chest, with muscular shoulders and arms the size of tree limbs.
“All the more to aim at,” she whispered for no one to hear.
Boom! The round smacked high on his torso. Still, he kept moving forward, having only momentarily registered the bullet impact. The revolver was now empty, and useless. She tossed it to the side, then pulled her Kukri from its sheath.
Despite his wound, the barrel-chested man was the first to arrive at the hangar. With a bestial roar, he charged Danya. An ill-conceived charge, pointless. He stretched his arms out, apparently to wrap her in a bear hug. But she ducked and pivoted, slipping under his grasp. At the same time, she slashed the large-curved blade. It bit deep into the man’s abdomen. His momentum carried him forward several more steps before he stopped, covering his belly with both hands. Blood flowed between his fingers as he attempted to keep his guts within his body. He dropped to his knees, then to his back. Shock and blood loss overwhelmed his adrenaline-fueled rage.
Danya never saw his arms fall limp to the side. She was already back in the battle. She had just recovered from her parry when Clint and the other man were on her, moving fast. Clint was unarmed, but the other man had a twelve-inch Bowie in his grip.
A glint of polished steel raced toward her. She blocked with her Kukri, catching the Bowie at the large brass guard, and halted the thrust only inches from her chest. With the crossed blades locked, she planted her foot in his groin. He stepped backwards, grunting. Now free, she retreated farther into the hangar, drawing in her pursuers. They couldn’t be allowed to glimpse Flynn as he searched the parked vehicles.
But where was the FBI man? She had yet to see him since he’d left the hangar.
Clint and the other man separated some. Clint was still unarmed, and he moved well despite the superficial wound.
The knifeman lunged for her. With a clang of steel, she swatted the Bowie to the side, and with her free hand, grasped her tomahawk.
The two men hesitated and then exchanged a concerned glance. The knifeman charged again and swung his blade at her face. An easy move to block with the combat tomahawk. The knife blade struck and sparked as it slid along the forged steel handle, and then hooked into the axe head. He twisted inward, closing the gap between them, and swung a left hook.
She ducked, feeling a swoosh of air over her head. At the same time, she swung the Kukri low. It sliced deep into his calf muscle, halfway between knee and ankle. A gasp of agony escaped his lips. But the wound only seemed to enrage him, and he drew his arm back at the same time he shoved the tomahawk to the side.
A massive blow landed on the side of Danya’s head. She staggered to the side, but didn’t let go of her weapons. After stumbling several steps, she shook off the blow and regained her fighting stance.
The knifeman moved in, slower this time, and favoring his sliced leg. Clint was circling, but keeping well-beyond her reach. She was slowly retreating, turning her head side to side to keep an eye on both attackers. If she could retreat to a corner, the two assailants wouldn’t be able to flank her or approach from behind.
She dared to steal a glance over her shoulder to make sure the path she was backpedaling was clear. An opening the knifeman had been looking for.
Through her peripheral vision, she saw the Bowie slicing toward her. She raised the axe to block his attack, and thrust the machete, but he clamped his hand onto her wrist, halting the forward movement of the curved blade. She slammed her forehead into the knifeman’s nose. The snapping sound of crushed cartilage was joined by a stream of red blood flowing from his broken nose. The explosion of pain blasting through his face and head forced him to slacken his grip on her wrist.
Anticipating an attack from Clint, she yanked her arm free from the knifeman and side-stepped inside of Clint’s swing, such that only his forearm connected with her head.
With instincts bred from battle, Danya knew she was a second away from being overwhelmed by the two men. She rotated her wrist, reversing the Kukri blade, and delivered a reverse slash across the knifeman’s abdomen, cutting through muscle and into his stomach.
