Claire adjusted her grip on her shield, readied herself to throw it. The assassin was still marching forward with a single-mindedness the likes of which Claire had never seen, her face obscured by a mask, only the dark eyes visible. She was ignoring the fire, the rubble she was stepping over, a knife readied in one gloved hand. Claire shifted her weight and pitched it forward with all her strength.
The assassin stopped cold, tilting her head in consideration as it hurtled towards her. Seamlessly she reached out and grabbed it, fingers digging into the painted metal. Claire froze, her heart pounding. Shit.
It came back with seemingly twice the force than she’d thrown it with; Claire dropped, barely dodging it, rolling away and scrambling to get back on her feet. The assassin - and she’d realised, now, it was the same woman from before, the Russian that Charlie insisted was an urban legend - was only metres away when she reached up and ripped off her mask.
No, Claire thought. No. It was impossible. It had to be.
“Emma?” she choked out, her throat suddenly tight. Emma tilted her head again, the slightest of frowns crossing her face.
“Who the hell is Emma?”
“I’m with you to the end of the line.”
Inspired by this. Pic credit: x x
