The fight begins in earnest, and I’m brutally reminded that I was only ever trained as an instrument of torture. Falk blocks allmy swings, his training is so obviously superior that adrenaline fueled terror is my only advantage. Shit. This was my only plan.
When by some trick of fate, I land a punch, he grunts, his hazel eyes dark, but that’s it. One hit. After that, no matter how many times I swing with my left and block with my right forearm, he counters, my handicap so damn predictable that my best effort might as well be a warm-up for the man.
Walker harries him from behind like some fucking terrier, kicking at the backs of his knees, but even then, there’s a reason Falk did what he did. He’s fucking fast. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet, any advantage of size lost the second he grounds me. I never had a reason to learn to grapple.
I scrabble against the concrete, trying to get a hold on the man, Walker dodging in to help. And fucking Falk kicks out at him, the force of his solid strike slamming Walker into the wall. Walker’s head cracks against the concrete, the sound like a giant egg dropped on the floor, and my goddamn heart dives into my goddamn stomach.
There’s no way Walker knows how to take a hit, let alone one that hard.
Fuck, even Clara has more experience taking hits than he does.
My eyes water, barely able to focus on the losing fight I’m in, as Walker slides down the wall and doesn’t get back up.
Impotent rage boils, and I throw myself at Falk, trying to pin him, to slam him against the wall, the floor, whatever I can do, but still, he dodges, dancing back, his face grim.
“Just give it up, kid,” he grunts as he blocks another of my damn swings on the left.
I aim for the side of his head with my elbow, like I’ve seen RJ do, but it’s not a move I’ve done before, and he catches it and dances to the side. “Would you?” I pant.
He doesn’t respond, because he knows he’d be fighting to get away if he could. But for a second, his face slumps, and rightthen, I jam my knee up. He blocks it with this thigh, but as he steps back, his ankle gets caught in my shoulder bag.
He stumbles as I try to spin his misstep to my advantage, but all I manage is a glancing blow to his jaw. And I know that’s it.
I’m exhausted. My right hand is useless. Walker’s down for the count, and Falk is more machine than man. That was my one chance. And it hardly mattered.
Sure enough, Falk does some jujitsu crap, and I’m pinned against the wall, the cool concrete against my cheek almost welcome.
“Stop. Just stop,” he grunts against my back as I flail, trying to offset him with my bulk as he kicks out my legs, trying to keep me off balance, my legs too wide to step out of whatever hold this shit is.
Instead, I go for the last thing I can think of, going slack in his grasp, using my melting mass to unsettle him.
But he’s even ready for that move stepping back while keeping a grip on my wrists, the one on my right searing like lightning as it gets tugged and jostled as I melt to the floor, trying to roll out of his control.
There’s a jangle and athunkbehind me, and my arms are loose enough to yank free.
I scramble to my feet, spinning to find a bloody Walker with the duffel bag swinging in his grip, Falk on the floor, blood on his temple matching a splatter on the concrete wall about head height.
Walker blinks at me, his eyes unfocused and rocking like he’s on a fucking boat. “What the hell is in this bag?”
Not wanting to waste a minute, I yank my bag out from under Falk, take the duffel from Walker’s wavering grip, and add his bag to my collection as well. Then I shove him toward the direction we’d been going, hoping he’s not so concussed that hecan’t find the way out of this fucking underground trap. “Cat litter and food.”
“You’re telling me I just took out a guy with something cats shit in?” An unhinged laugh falls from him as he stumbles forward, his hand against the wall keeping him upright.
I risk a glance at my watch, my vision bleary from the hits I took. If Walker can still find his way out of a tin can, let alone this underground rat race, we might make it in time. Might.
We’ve got to try. I didn’t think I’d make it this far, but I’m not giving up yet. Even if I feel like I should.
Chapter 31
RJ
Clara’s shriek of terror has me on my feet, looking for the threat and unable to find one. Until she collapses to the mat, and I catch sight of gray fur clinging to her back.
“Cat, cat,” she whimpers while Jansen’s fucking cat talks at me like he’s lecturing me on the insult of being shoved in a bag. The scruff of the beast’s neck is in my fist before I can think about it, and it’s skittering across the mat, tail straight up, a hissing yowl accompanying its unceremonious journey across the room. Then he’s clambering up the storage cabinet in the back, squeezing against the top and the ceiling, yelling the whole way.
But Clara’s whimpers have me dropping to the mat next to her, blood pooling on her back next to a series of newly scabbed scratches and a few Band-Aids, the sight of my cum dribbling down her thigh momentarily distracting me from the blood.
Blood first, RJ, I scold myself. “Are you okay? I’ll grab the first aid kit.”
