“Again,” she says.
“We’re done with groundwork.”
“No, we’re not. You won.”
“I always win. That’s the point.”
“Again.” She steps into my space. “Grab me.”
I grab her.
This time, I don’t hold back. I spin her. Lock her arm behind her back. Press her face-first into the rough bark of a pine tree.
“You’re dead,” I say. “I have your arm. I have your neck. You have no leverage.”
She grunts, straining against the hold.
“Think. You can’t out-fight me. You can’t out-muscle me. What do you have?”
She stops struggling.
For a second, she goes completely still against the tree.
“I have eyes,” she whispers.
“What?”
She throws her weight backward. Not away from me—into me.
Her shoulder slams into my lower left ribs.
The spot where the bullet grazed the bone in Syria. The spot where I cracked two ribs in the extraction yesterday.
Pain explodes. White hot.
My grip loosens. Just for a fraction of a second.
She spins. Doesn’t run. She drops low and sweeps my leg.
It’s sloppy. It shouldn’t work.
But I’m favoring the left side. My balance is off.
I stumble. Catch myself on the tree.
Cassie is standing five feet away. Breathing hard. Leaves in her hair.
“You favor the left,” she says.
I straighten, rubbing my side. The pain is a sharp throb.
“What?”
“When we were on the ground. When you walk. You guard the left side.” She points. “Ribs?”
I stare at her.
“Yes.”
