Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
I feint a kick, then throw a real one, driving my foot into the street fighter’s gut. It’s successful but allows the trained fighter to launch a flurry at my head. My forearms strain as my instincts try to make me raise my hands. My coach is my mind, yelling at me for keeping my hands low.
After more punches to the face, the trained fighter launches in and aims an elbow at my face. I just about manage to veer back. I almost throw another headbutt, but he reads me, raising his elbow in a guard. He’ll shatter my goddamn face. I dance away out of range. The tattooed street fighter is still on the floor, but the other one is walking toward me.
“It doesn’t matter how good you are,” my first coach once told me. “It doesn’t matter how many hours you’ve trained. Sometimes, you zig when you should’ve zagged. So always keep your hands up, kid. Always.”
The street fighter runs at me and throws a wild right hand. I manage to dodge and swipe his legs out from under him, taking him out. The move cost me by bringing me right into the shin of the trained fighter. Fuck. It knocks me backward, my head spinning. My legs threaten to give out from underneath me, my knees wobbling. A famous fighter once called this the chicken dance.
I weave away. Fuck, another kick. I duck it, then spring at the trained fighter, kneeing him so hard in the balls that he coughs and keels over. That gives me a chance to drive my knee into his head. He takes the shot well. It keeps him in range. I knee him twice more, thinking of my woman, our future, the life these bastards are trying to steal from us. Finally, he falls to the floor. I kick him hard in the gut.
Retreating to the cage wall, I feel blood dripping down my face, probably from my forehead. My head is hazy. My body is beginning to get tired. Moving like this is so alien to me. It’s taxing my system way too much.
“Get them out of there!” the leader yells from the dark. “Send in the rest!”
I take slow breaths as masked men enter the cage and escort the men. Then five men enter, five tough and violent men. Even if I had use of my hands, I don’t think I could take them. I don’t think anybody could, honestly, not in a cage. Maybe if I had space to dance around and evade them, but I don’t. Fuck. What now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Molly
Do something, a voice in my head screams as five men enter the cage.
It’s insane that Duke could stand off against all those other men. It was like watching a crazy dance of violence, Duke leaping between techniques I didn’t understand. It was like visual poetry, but now they’ll get him. Five against one, hands behind his back. There isn’t a person alive who could handle this.
My insides ache, tightening as if my womb is telling me I have to act now. If I don’t, we’re not going to share a future. The fact that Ryan is my ex seems so insignificant now, so petty. We could all die here. Who cares about that? Maybe if we escape here alive, we’ll have time to worry about it, but not now.
Three of the men charge at Duke. He kicks one. Another leaps on his leg. Another jumps right at his body. Duke misses a headbutt, and then they drag him to the floor. One runs right at his head as if getting ready to kick him.
“D-Dad,” Ryan whimpers. “No, Dad!”
I close my eyes for a split second, summoning my courage. If I die here, so be it. That’s the only way I will be able to do this. I have to accept that it could be the end. It could be, probably will be, but it’s better than just waiting for them to finish him.
Turning suddenly, I leap at the guard behind me. He yells in shock. Moving fast, I grab his hand. Luckily, it’s the one holding the gun. I can tell by how he pulls it up, trying to aim it at me. Leaning down, I bite down on his hand. I bite hard. I chew and tear, pulling away, hating every second—the taste of his sweat, the fact I’m doing this.
He drops the gun. Leaping to the ground, I grab it and fire it into the air twice—bang, bang. The shots ring through my ears, my vision blinding with the flare. It lights up the surrounding darkness momentarily, revealing around ten men. Already, they’re moving toward us.
I can hear Ryan wrestling with another man. I run toward the darkness, gun in hand, no clue what’s happening in the cage or if our backup heard anything. Running like a trapped rodent, I end up in a corridor, aiming the gun in my hand at the entrance.