Some Action

His men chuckled, a chorus of low, ugly laughter that bounced off the marble floors and glass display cases. Then they raised their weapons, the cold steel of their barrels catching the dim emergency lights as they trained every muzzle on Catalina. The air grew thick with the promise of violence.

What followed was a flash of chaos.

Catalina didn't think; there was no time for hesitation, so she moved. Thought was a luxury she couldn't afford. Instinct, honed through years of brutal training and sharpened by the mystical power thrumming through her veins, took the wheel. She dropped from the skylight like a thunderbolt, her body a dark green blur against the fluorescent glow. She landed in a crouch so fluid, so silent, it made the four men hesitate for a split second. That hesitation was all she needed.

The first goon, a heavyset man with a shotgun, swung his weapon toward her. Too slow. Catalina pivoted on her heel and swept her leg out in a low, vicious arc. Her boot connected with the backs of his knees with a sickening crack, and his legs buckled as if someone had cut the strings. Before he could even process the pain, she drove her fist into his solar plexus. It was a surgical, piston-like strike that punched the air from his lungs and folded him in half. He collapsed in a wheezing heap, the shotgun clattering uselessly across the floor.

The second man panicked. His pistol barked once, twice, three times. They were wild, desperate shots that tore through display cases and sent diamonds exploding into the air like glittering shrapnel. Catalina didn't flinch. She wove through the gunfire with an almost lazy grace, her body twisting and ducking in a serpentine rhythm that made her seem less like a woman and more like smoke given form. She closed the distance in two strides, slipped inside his guard, and drove an uppercut into the underside of his jaw. His teeth clacked together with a sound like a gunshot, and his eyes rolled back as he crumpled.

She snatched the falling pistol from his limp hand before it hit the ground. In one smooth motion, she whirled and hurled it across the room. The weapon spun through the air like a deadly discus and struck the third gunman square in the forehead with a dull thwack. His head snapped back, his body followed, and he went down in a tangle of limbs and unconsciousness. The gun clattered to the floor beside him.

Three down. One to go.

Catalina's senses flared. She scanned the room, her enhanced hearing picking up the faint scuff of a shoe, the shallow, panicked breathing of a man trying to make himself small. Goon number four had slipped away during the frenzy—a coward's instinct, but a smart one. She turned, her tail twitching behind her, ready to—

Click.

The sound was small. Almost imperceptible. But to Catalina's enhanced ears, it was as loud as a gunshot.

She froze.

To her horror, the fourth gunman had reappeared behind the security guard. He had the man by the collar, using him as a human shield, and his pistol was pressed so hard against the guard's temple that the skin around the barrel had gone white. The guard was an older man with graying hair, and he stared at Catalina with wide, terrified eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, a prayer or a plea; she couldn't tell.

"Make one more move, Cat Bitch," the gunman snarled, his voice cracking with desperate bravado, "and this guard is meeting God tonight. Put your hands up! NOW!"

Catalina's blood ran cold. Her muscles screamed at her to move, to strike, to do something, but what could she do?