He's not as fast as he was before he dropped a pint, but Voodoo's still quick enough to drop the MP5 to let it hang by the sling as he unsheathes the tomahawk with a shick. The oncoming shoot gets hacked to bits, and he vaults over the counter, twirling the tomahawk in his hand as he sprints toward Dinah, the clomp of his boots on the aged concrete reverberating in the space.

She's not dying today. Not if he can help it.