She was not going to be a victim!

As the assailant let loose with another kick, she grabbed his ankle and twisted her body, throwing him off-balance.

He fell with a thud—and a curse.

A Spanish curse.

She jumped to her feet, ignoring the throb in her rib cage.

Fighting with this guy—and based on his strength and build, her attacker was male, even though his black balaclava concealed his features—was a bad idea.

If she wasn’t already hurt, she could hold her own in a hand-to-hand altercation—but her ribs had taken a hit.

Besides, without her trusty Sig, if he pulled a knife or gun she was sunk.

Best plan? Disable him enough to get a running start and race toward the school. Once she emerged from the woods, he’d take a huge risk if he followed her.

As he sprang to his feet and lunged at her, she went into attack mode. Pulling out every self-defense move she knew, she aimed for his more vulnerable areas. Heel of hand to his nose, finger poke in the eyes, jab to the throat, and a kick to the groin that doubled him over and broke his hold.

This was her chance.

She took off down the path, running as fast as her aching ribs allowed, hood flopping back.

Seconds later, an object whizzed past her.

What was—

Ow!

She stumbled as something hard collided with the back of her head. Dropped to one knee. Fought a wave of dizziness.

Had she been . . . shot?

No. That didn’t make sense. There’d been no sound of gunfire.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

A bloody rock on the ground beside her came into focus.

The guy had hit her with a rock?

That must mean he didn’t have a gun.

But why wait around to find out?

She forced herself back to her feet, took two steps forward—and crumpled as her legs gave out.

Behind her, the crunch of leaves indicated the guy was stirring. Recovering from the blows she’d rained on him. Soon, he’d be back in fighting form and able to do far more than throw a few well-aimed rocks.

Which was more than she could say about herself as the landscape around her tilted.

The blow to the head had done a number on her.

Meaning there was no way she was going to be able to fend him off again—or make it back to safety in one piece.

Cate was late.

Ten minutes late.

Zeke frowned as the digital clock on the far wall in the library flicked to the next number.

This wasn’t like her. If she’d been delayed, she would have texted him.

He double-checked his messages.

Nothing.

He tried texting her.

Waited sixty eternal seconds.

No reply.

Kayla entered the library, and Zeke rose. Maybe her roommate knew why Cate hadn’t shown.