42
Pierre tried to remember how he’d ended up in this position, but couldn’t quite put it together.
One moment he’d been standing just to the west side of the wrecked Ghostrider airplane he’d been flying in this morning. The evening sun fast approaching the high hills to the back of Avalon Harbor hid the worst of the devastation along the waterfront.
The next moment, his back was pinned against the hull. A very big combat blade from Holly’s leg sheath was up against his throat—point digging painfully into his skin. Not poised to slice across, rather set to be jammed straight into his brain and end him. He could just manage to see the distinctive metal ring at the hilt that would slip over a rifle muzzle to make it a bayonet. A seven-inch M9. Straight to the brain indeed.
Her other hand
