He sputtered, his features twisted with hatred and tried to throw me off, but I had my knees planted on either side of him and shoved harder on his windpipe, squeezing. His eyes bulged.

“Answer me,” I said.

“Zhou!” Arun called from behind.

I looked toward Arun, and four more men had emerged from another black sedan. Seven in all now. We were outnumbered.

Victor had pulled Arun back, a hand clasped on his shoulder. But everyone’s attention seemed to be on me.

“I’ll kill him,” I said, voice muffled behind my respirator.

There was no sound except for the ragged breathing of the man pinned beneath me.

“Kill him, then,” one of the thugs said. “But you’re coming with us.”

I recognized him even in the dim streetlight: Da Ge, Jin’s right-hand man.

I lunged for the dropped taser, still crackling a lethal red, and fired. All the men fell to the ground, avoiding the laser that arced over them. “Run,” I shouted at my friends. They ran, Vic pulling Arun by the arm.

Da Ge and another man were scrambling to their feet, and I fired the taser again. Da Ge dodged, lightning quick in his reflexes. The other guy wasn’t so lucky. I shot and tagged him square in the chest. He dropped instantly, convulsing on the ground. Victor and Arun disappeared into a dark alley. It had given my friends enough time—

I didn’t finish the thought as I felt a sharp prick on my exposed wrist. The man under me had jabbed me with a syringe. “Sweet dreams, asshole,” he said as the world went black around me.

•  •  •

I struggled to consciousness, my head heavy as stone, temples pounding. My mouth had been stuffed with a rag, and my throat worked, parched. Slowly, I opened my eyes. They felt swollen; my vision blurred. I had been thrown into some storage room. Boxes and old machinery were crammed against the walls. The thugs had tied me to a metal chair, bound my hands behind my back and my ankles together with rope. My limbs were numb, and I tried to rotate my shoulders. Pinpricks, then sharp pain flared in my joints and arms.

I had no idea how long I’d been out. Could be hours. Even a day. A wave of nausea swept over me, and I fought it. If I threw up, I’d choke to death on my own vomit. Slowing my breathing, I willed my pulse to stop racing, my mind to stop screaming in panic.