Rocco's arrogance flooded back, hot and ugly. "I'll teach you what happens to smart-mouthed sluts," he growled, closing the five-foot gap between them with a heavy, swinging reach aimed straight for her throat.
To a general who had fought cybernetically enhanced shock troopers, Rocco's movement was laughably slow. His balance was forward-heavy, his guard nonexistent, his center of gravity completely exposed.
Justine didn't retreat. That was the mistake amateurs made.
She took a precise half-step forward, rotating her hips along a tight kinetic axis. Rocco's thick hand clawed empty air past her ear. Before he could recover his momentum, Justine drove her knee upward with the mechanical precision of a hydraulic piston, burying it deep into his groin.
CRACK.
The sound of ruptured cartilage echoed off the alley bricks. Rocco's sneer warped into a silent, bulging-eyed mask of agony.
The air exploded from his lungs in a wet wheeze, and his two-hundred-pound frame folded like wet cardboard, crashing face-first into the filthy puddle.
"What the-!" Gus shouted, his jaw dropping.
He lunged with his switchblade, slashing toward her ribs in a panicked frenzy.
Justine's temporal processing was already three moves ahead. As Rocco went down, a rusted, eighteen-inch iron tire iron slipped from his unbuttoned jacket.
Without breaking her fluid pirouette, she hooked the iron with the toe of her designer heel, kicked it up into her palm, and brought the blunt steel whistling through the damp air.
WHACK!
The iron rod struck Gus's right wrist with surgical precision. Bone gave way with a sickening crunch.
The switchblade flew out of his nerveless fingers, splashing into the mud, while Gus shrieked, collapsing to his knees as he clutched his unnaturally bent forearm.
The third thug, an overweight man in a hoodie, froze. He looked at Rocco writhing in fetal convulsions, then at Gus weeping blood onto the asphalt. His face went chalk-white.
"Monster..." he choked out. He spun around, scrambling toward the neon-lit avenue.
Justine didn't run. She bent down, plucked the fallen switchblade from the mud, tested its balance in a single heartbeat, and whipped her arm forward in a vicious, sidearm snap.
THUNK!
The four-inch steel blade buried itself through the rubber sole of the runner's sneaker, pinning his foot directly into the wooden pallet beneath the garbage heap.
The man screeched in horror, losing his footing and slamming his forehead hard against a rusted dumpster, knocking himself half-unconscious as a warm, dark stain spread rapidly across his jeans.
Total engagement time: eight seconds.
Justine stood alone amidst the whimpers of broken men. The icy rain washed the mud from her skin, but she barely felt the chill.
She walked back toward Rocco, the iron rod dragging against the pavement with a slow, metallic screech that made the gang leader convulse in terror.
She planted the heel of her ruined designer boot directly onto his windpipe, slowly applying downward pressure until his lips turned blue.
"Now," she whispered, leaning down. "Let's review the terms of your contract. Who gave the order?"
"I... I can't..." Rocco coughed blood, his fingers clawing desperately at her boot. "They'll kill me..."
Justine's smile didn't reach her eyes. She reached down, took his index finger, and snapped it backward like a dry twig.
Rocco's scream was muffled beneath her sole.
"I am a merciful commander," she murmured softly. "You have nine more fingers. When they are gone, we begin with your teeth. Who paid you?"
"Julissa! Julissa Estes!" Rocco screamed, sobbing openly now. "She gave us five grand cash! She said to ruin you on camera, then throw you in the river! Said nobody would look for a disgraced junkie! Please... please don't kill me!"
"A sensible confession," Justine said.
She lifted her boot, then brought it down in a short, brutal stomp onto his right knuckles, pulverizing the remaining bones to ensure he could never hold a weapon again. Rocco groaned once and slipped into merciful unconsciousness.
She walked to the wall, picking up the girl's waterlogged handbag. Inside, nestled beneath ruined makeup, was a pristine, mother-of-pearl music box-the expensive birthday gift had been bought for Jared Little.
Justine opened the lid. A tinny, sweet lullaby chimed against the sound of rain.
She reached down into the mud where Rocco had spat out two shattered, bloody molars during the fight. With two fingers, she lifted the bloody tooth and dropped it squarely onto the velvet lining of the music box.
Snap.
She shut the lid, cutting off the song, and tossed the pearl box onto the chest of the weeping Gus.
"Take your boss, take that box, and deliver it to the front gate of the Estes mansion," Justine commanded, her voice ringing with the finality of an execution order. "Tell Julissa... her big sister is coming home to collect her debts."
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