man's eyes bulged. He choked blood. Grabbed the hilt. Tried to draw it out. Couldn't. Sank to his knees. Died.
By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.
Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.
Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.
She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.
Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.
Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.
Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers—and a thumb—fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.
Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that—a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)
Instantly, she was
By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.
Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.
Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.
She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.
Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.
Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.
Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers—and a thumb—fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.
Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that—a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)
Instantly, she was