All the guys had charged straight at Brooklyn, leaving Carolyn slumped and alone. Allison rushed over, catching her just in time. “Ms. Witt, wake up! It’s me, Allison.”
With the guys distracted, Allison wrapped an arm around Carolyn and hustled her toward the car. “Hang in there, Ms. Witt. I’m getting you to the hospital.”
Meanwhile, the men were going after Brooklyn like they had something to prove. Big mistake.
Brooklyn, dressed head-to-toe in sleek black, moved like she owned the night—eyes sharp, every motion quick and lethal. She ducked and weaved between them, taking down one after another with brutal, almost effortless precision. A sharp elbow sent one guy with a buzz cut crashing to the ground; a perfect spinning kick smashed into another’s face, leaving his nose bloodied and misshapen.
A tattooed man charged at her, eyes wild. Brooklyn sidestepped, using his own momentum to flip him hard onto the pavement.
In less than ten minutes, it was over. The men lay sprawled out, groaning and defeated, not one able to stand.
Brooklyn gave them a cold, hard look—no sympathy, no words. She barely broke a sweat, and none of those creeps had even gotten close to Allison, let alone laid a finger on her. One woman versus six men, and Brooklyn didn’t have a scratch.
Allison had already called the police. By the time they arrived, sirens blaring, the fight was long done. Two officers stepped out, taking in the wreck of battered men at Brooklyn’s feet.
One officer stared at her, disbelief written all over his face. “Wait, you’re saying you did this... by yourself?”
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