"Vance, go help them finish this clown," the young man commanded, flicking his wrist toward a third hitman standing to his left... a broad, scarred brute holding a heavy steel baton.
Vance stepped onto the crushed slate without a word.
Karl's breath hitched, a cold spike of dread driving deep into his gut. He didn't need to see the brute swing to know what he was up against.
The low center of gravity, the relaxed shoulders, the dead calm in the eyes... Vance wasn't expendable muscle. He was a veteran killer, every bit as trained, hardened, and dangerous as Karl was.
Against one, Karl had a fighting chance. Against three? He was done for.
Survival instinct took over. Karl abandoned all thoughts of fighting, shifting his weight to bolt toward the far railing and throw himself into the dark treeline below. Broken bones were better than a grave.
He didn't make it two steps.
