Her tactical gloves were coated in snow dust and mud, mingled with the smell of gunpowder and cigars.
Laura Croft heard a bout of heavy breathing. Without looking back, she kicked, but hit nothing. Then she felt her foot being seized, a pair of hands gripping her ankle and dragging her backward with all their strength. Before Laura Croft could shift her balance, she was thrown to the ground, and terror instantly seized her mind. She instinctively curled up to protect her head and spine from impact, clutching her HK USP pistol tightly. Her free leg kicked wildly. She had barely fired a shot when the hand clutching her ankle vanished. Then a figure lunged out from the side, its combat boot striking her wrist.
The pain from metal colliding with bone forced her to drop the gun, and tears involuntarily welled from her eyes. She did not give up fighting. She immediately drew the dagger strapped to her thigh, but her attacker noticed the movement as well. An icy gun barrel pressed against her forehead, while the arm holding the dagger was pinned firmly beneath a knee.
"I'm not dead, Laura Croft!"
The person stepping out of the darkness reached out and clamped a filthy hand around her throat, its fingers covered in mud, dried blood, and broken nails. She could even feel the person's fingerprints. Though the light was poor, she still saw who it was. This terror was worse than physical pain, because she was certain this man should have rotted away in a dungeon and could never possibly be here—Constantine, commander of The Trinity's mercenary forces, the blood-related younger brother of Anna, Richard Croft's girlfriend; a madman obsessed with religious prophecies, a fanatic who believed the wounds Anna had carved into his skin were Holy Marks.