O’Keefe tugs a machine pistol free of his belt. Tikki meets him nose-to-nose—fangs bared and roaring—using her chest like a battering ram and driving O’Keefe back three or four meters, right through the open door and into another room. Whistle cries out shrilly, driven back off her feet. O’Keefe’s gun rattles on full automatic, but Tikki slaps the hand that holds it, like the elf connected to that hand, flat to the floor.