Monster

Thirty-Three

When Bucky was gone, I turned back to Oscar to ensure he was okay. He appeared unconscious, and the other men were groaning throughout the living room. I really hoped no one was dead. I stood to check on a man sprawled out on the living room rug. He was breathing, but it looked like his spine might be bent, and I wasn't sure he'd be able to recover from it. I knew I shouldn't feel sorry for someone who probably would have killed me without a second thought, but the idea of someone dying in my living room made me sick. Although I suppose that was part of the risk when working for Hydra.

Unfortunately, I'd taken my eyes off of Oscar for a moment too long. I was checking over the unfamiliar man bleeding on the floor when a boot hit the back of my knee. I squeaked and toppled over. Oscar's hand came around my ankle, and he yanked me back toward him. I swung and tried to kick him off, but he had me pinned in seconds. He smothered my face with his grimy, bloody hands. He was seething with rage.

I flailed my arms, searching for the knife I'd dropped when I fell. My hand found the handle, and he didn't try to stop me, even though he could see what I was doing. Instead, he wrapped his hands around my neck and smiled as he pressed his thumbs to the hollow of my throat to cut off my breathing.

"You can't do it," he said. "You've never been able to do it. You're too much of a...."

I swung upward and jerked the knife into his chest. I couldn't pull a trigger, and I didn't like killing people, but that didn't mean I lacked other skills. I was always good with knives. It was how I'd gotten my team to stop calling me "Tinkerbelle." Because they thought "Knives" was more appropriate. Though I was sure they meant it as an insult most of the time.

His eyes widened in shock. His expression went from amusement to disbelief in a second. He rolled away, gasping and whining about the stupid sparkly pink handle sticking out of his chest. I rolled to my knees and crawled away toward the door.

"You bitch," Oscar spat out. "You little bitch. I can't believe you actually stabbed me. I'm going to bash your fucking head in!"

Since my knife was gone and I wasn't stupid enough to try and get it back, I reached for the next weapon I could find. The gun Bucky had tossed by the couch. I grabbed it in shaking hands, got to my feet, and raced for the door. I knew Steve was on his way, and if he got there in time, I'd never have to find out if I could use it. But I didn't have time to search for my weapon of choice, and I doubted Oscar would let me get a second shot in. I needed something to keep him back, even if I wasn't brave enough to actually pull the trigger.

I stumbled out of the front door and into the yard. I heard him shout as he came crashing after me. So I stopped on the lawn and spun around with the gun raised. He'd found another one, probably one that belonged to one of his teammates. He waved it casually as he stepped out onto the polka dot doormat. My knife was still sticking out of his chest, but it wouldn't do any real damage. The shock was now replaced with rage.

"I've been dreaming of this moment since the day you kicked me out," he said, holding the gun aloft in one hand.

The other was clutching his bleeding chest. The bedazzled pink handle protruded from between his fingers, right above his Kevlar vest. It wasn't a fatal place to be stabbed, and I'd done that on purpose. But now, I was starting to see the flaw in that choice. There were other places I could have aimed that wouldn't have killed him, but would have gotten him down so he couldn't kill me. In my defense, I'd had all of half a second to plan for it.

"The first time you pulled this stupid pink knife on me, I said to myself, 'God, I can't wait to kill this bitch.' You know what they told me? They said, 'Not yet. We've got plans for that one.' But they're not here to stop me, and I'm really going to enjoy this."