It was the only way to adequately fuel up.

Father John’s words ringing in her ears, she shot through the main doors at speed and turned left down the street. In the distance, she could see her targets. The pitstop had cost her time: she piled on the power, dropping into her pursuit rhythm; her feet drummed the pavement; sweat poured off her; she ran.

In the event, it didn’t take long to catch her quarry. She forced herself to ignore what had slowed them down. There would be time for tears later. For now, though, she bared the solid silver, dagger-pointed crucifix and dived in, ignoring the nagging knowledge that there were too many for her to fight, that there was only one of her, and that today may well be the day that she hung up her running shoes.

She sliced and stabbed. She lost blood. Idly, she wondered exactly what words she would use to tell the Boss that she hated her job.