Delilah's breath came harsh through her teeth, chest heaving as she squared off against Roughhouse. The brute loomed like a mountain, battered but far from beaten.
Her arms ached. Her ribs burned from where his last strike had nearly caved them in. But her grin didn't falter. She'd fought men faster, stronger, crueler. And she was still standing. The only problem with this guy was his durability and healing.
Roughhouse cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders with the lazy calm of someone who knew he could keep swinging all night. "You're tough, girl. But tough don't beat me."
Delilah spat blood onto the dock floor. "Tough? No, it won't, but skill will."
Roughhouse charged. The dock shuddered beneath his pounding steps. Delilah darted sideways, fast as a whip, her heel catching his knee at the angle just sharp enough to buckle it. He stumbled, cursing, and she lunged—fists hammering his jaw, elbows smashing his throat.
Roughhouse reeled but recovered fast, swiping his arm wide. She ducked under it, drove a knife-hand strike into his ribs, then snapped a kick into his gut. The giant staggered back against a shipping container, the impact ringing like a drum.
"Not laughing now, are you?" she snarled, eyes flashing.
Roughhouse grinned through the blood running down his chin. "You hit hard, doll. But I hit harder."
He swung. She caught the fist with both hands, twisting, redirecting the force into the container wall. Metal groaned and dented under the impact. Before he could recover, she slammed her forehead into his nose.
Bone crunched. He roared. She laughed.
But the laughter masked the truth: her body was wearing down. Each blow rattled deeper. Her arms screamed from absorbing his power. Every dodge, every counter cost her precious energy.
Roughhouse was like Juggernaut—less a man, more a boulder rolling downhill. You didn't stop him; you redirected him. And Delilah knew she had only so many redirections left.
He caught her across the chest with a glancing blow, and it was like being hit by a car. She flew back into a stack of crates, wood splintering around her. Pain flared through her side, sharp and hot.
She groaned, staggered to her feet, and wiped her mouth. Her vision blurred, but her smile was wicked. "That's all you got? I thought you were supposed to be scary."
Roughhouse bared his teeth. "Keep talkin'. You won't have a jaw left to flap."
She backed toward the crane, eyes flicking upward. The container dangled, chained and creaking. She remembered Ricochet's move earlier. Clever kid. Time to prove she could play that game too.
Roughhouse charged again. She let him. Waited until the last second, then dove aside. His momentum carried him under the crane, his fists smashing sparks from the concrete.
Delilah drew her pistol in one smooth motion. "Smile, big man."
She fired. Not at him, but at the chain.
The bullets tore through the links. Metal screeched, then snapped. The container dropped like a guillotine, slamming down onto Roughhouse with an earth-shaking crash.
Dust and debris plumed into the air. The dock rattled with the impact. For a moment, silence reigned—then the muffled sound of Roughhouse roaring from beneath the steel.
Delilah holstered the pistol and exhaled. "That's how you win."
She turned—and froze.
A cold hand clamped over her shoulder. Claws dug into her skin. Her blood ran hot down her back, faster and faster as the grip tightened.
Pain tore through her veins like fire. Her body convulsed. She tried to wrench free, but the strength left her limbs. Her knees buckled. Her breath hitched, and for the first time in years, Delilah felt fear.
"Such fire," Bloodscream whispered into her ear, his voice a serpent's hiss. "It burns sweet."
Her scream caught in her throat as the life bled from her body. Darkness swam at the edges of her vision. She clawed at his grip, but it was like fighting iron.
Her strength gave out. Her body sagged in his grasp. The world dimmed, sounds distant. Her last thought, bitter and furious, was that she had almost had him. Almost.
Then everything went black.
Ricochet saw it—the pale figure with his claws sunk into Delilah's back, her body going limp. His chest seized with alarm. He couldn't let her die, not now, not like this.
He sprinted, springing off a container wall. His boot connected with Bloodscream's chest, the impact launching the vampire back into a steel gantry. The creature hissed, releasing Delilah's body as he staggered.
Ricochet landed, ready to press the attack, his discs already flashing in his hands. Bloodscream rose, eyes burning brighter, fury twisting his features.
The fight wasn't over. It had just shifted.
Unseen, perched high in the shadows, Felicia Hardy watched with sharp eyes. She had tracked every motion, every blow. She had seen Delilah fall.
Now, as Ricochet squared off with Bloodscream, Felicia slipped down silently, her claws hooking into the steel to control her descent. She landed beside Delilah's unconscious body, movements quiet as breath.
"Don't worry, kitty," she whispered, hefting the assassin onto her shoulder with practiced strength. "I'll take good care of you."
Ethan's voice called out from the communicator, "Don't forget the other important thing I asked you to get."
Soon, with her job done, she vanished into the shadows before Ricochet or Bloodscream noticed, melting into the maze of containers. By the time anyone thought to look, Delilah was gone—spirited away into the night.
Ricochet tightened his grip on the steel pole in his hand, facing Bloodscream as the dock lights flickered and the water lapped against the pilings.
Roughhouse bellowed somewhere beneath the crushed container, his roars muffled but growing louder. Bloodscream hissed, crouched like a predator ready to spring.
Ricochet's jaw set beneath his mask.