he who hesitates is toast

The final rider, cursing in German, dodges his way closer to the wrecked and bullet-ridden body of the car. Her first shot misses by a bare inch; the second jams the Colt as a cartridge sticks.

There's no time to think about it. She throws the sidearm past the edge of the car, letting it skitter on the ground, then is up and vaulting over the trunk in the next second to take advantage of the way his head swivels to follow the gun's trajectory. One foot lands on his shoulder, shoving him back; the other follows in a snapping kick that catches him in the jaw.

He bellows and stumbles back, and she's on him in the next second, a flurry of strikes thudding into him until at last he's on the ground and she's breathing hard, hair and clothes mussed and rumpled.