After the Dark Read Free

noise suppressors exaggerating the barrels.
    So much for friendly greetings . . .
    Keeping his gloved hands unthreateningly loose at his sides, clearly not in a position to go for a gun in a timely fashion, White plotted his next move. These were trackers, not assassins—oh, they would kill him if necessary, but had their mission been to kill him, the greeting would have been bullets, not words.
    But there was no use trying to talk to them or reason with them or stall in any fashion. No one of these men was going to be swayed by words—even bribes would fall on deaf ears—and the truth was, he was outnumbered five to one.
    Combat 101: when confronted by superior numbers—attack.
    White took one swift step forward and leapt, his legs splaying wide as he kicked both men standing in front of him simultaneously. The one on the left grunted as White's boot struck him in the chest, the man's gun firing reflexively, the bullet sailing off across town trailed by the
snick
the gun made; the ski-masked tracker's feet went up and his head went down as he landed on his back in the snow with a faint
whump
. The one to White's right didn't even get out a grunt as White's boot caught him in the face, breaking his nose, dropping him to the snow, unconscious, gun dropping from his fingers, burying itself in a snow bank.
    White landed nimbly, then swung a leg around, in such a blur of speed that even trained types like these could only back away awkwardly. At the end of his motion his leg hit the ground, and then he was running, down that alley, leaving the fallen two behind, the other three coming after him.
    No shouts, no cries, from these pursuers—only their breath, barely audible behind him. Fast as he was, White had no hope of outrunning the trio—these were not ordinary men, but Familiars like himself. Still, with some luck, he might be able to pick a better place to make his stand.
    It did surprise and encourage him that they weren't firing at him. They would have their guns in hand by now—he didn't look back—and that meant there were no exterminate-upon-resistance orders for these trackers.
    He ran with long, easy strides, all those generations of breeding paying off, as he barely broke a sweat. Finally sneaking a look over his shoulder as he rounded a corner to his left, he could tell the three were still back there, the distance holding steady at about fifteen to twenty yards.
    He took a right turn, then crouched in a doorway and waited; he did not arm himself, leaving both pistols packed away. As his mind raced, one dominant thought prevailed:
he did not want to use a gun on them!
Although his stock with the Conclave—the Familiars' governing body—was at an all-time low, killing a Brother would send White careening across a line from which there was no possible return, except in a body bag.
    The first Familiar came around the corner, and White exploded out of the doorway to deliver a flying kick to the man's head, knocking him off his feet. The second one emerged just as White rolled and bounced to his feet. The Familiar attacked—like White, the man did not have a gun in hand—but White was ready. He dodged, he parried, and as the ski-masked assailant delivered one martial arts move after another, White avoided each, looking for an opening.
    As the third man barreled around the corner, White saw his chance. Spinning away from number two, he delivered a side kick to the solar plexus of number three and knocked him on his ass, the man's breath jetting from him as if he'd expelled a small cloud.
    Coming around to number two again, White executed a perfect leg sweep, dropping the man onto his back. Pressing the advantage, he caught the man across the clavicle with a quick chop and heard a sharp crack as the Familiar's collarbone snapped; but the man didn't cry out—pain wasn't an issue, really, but other physiological responses pertained, in this case unconsciousness.
    He paused momentarily, considering his three fallen