Every hit has to be full force. Every hit has to land exactly where it should.
So I strike. One. Another. A third. I put everything into it, forgetting for a moment that these are not trained fighters. I’m like a well-oiled machine. Thirteen years of daily training finally find their use.
They go down like sacks of potatoes.
Suddenly, I hear a shout behind me.
It’s Jeff, who has also jumped up and rushed to the edge of the dance floor.
Our eyes meet for a second, and I know he wantsrevenge…
"Gentlemen, looks like we’ve got a free round of Last Man Standing tonight! Come on! Let’s make him feel the spirit of this island!" Jeff throws his arms up, waving them in a beckoning gesture, calling all the alphas over.
And, damn it, that is exactly what happens.
The alphas sitting around rise at once, one after another, and start charging toward me.
"What the fuck is wrong with you!" I shout at Jeff, but it is already too late. The first attacker leaps onto the dance floor.
Bam.
Another strike.
Another alpha hits the ground.
Bam. Bam.
Some of them try the tactic they once used on Bashir, rushing me head-on, but I trained in jiu-jitsu and picked up quite a few techniques from judo as well. I know how to stepaside and redirect that force so my opponent ends up on the floor, hard.
But the next ones are already coming.
I do not have time to try to scare them off with shouting. To reason with them. Hell, who can even reason with excited alphas? Unfortunately, I am a young alpha too, and my own hormonal system does not always obey me completely. My body, fired up by the situation, switches into survival mode.
Either me, or them.
The small mercy in all of this is that not every alpha jumps up to join the chaos. The table where Evan and his group are sitting stays put. They are all staring in our direction, clearly stunned, but I do not have time to analyze that.
I also register, briefly, that Bashir is not joining the fight. He remains at his table with his beta, Fred, watching it all unfold.
There are still more than enough alphas to keep my hands full for the next couple of minutes as they come at me.
At first it is one by one, then in pairs, and finally even three at a time. I have to keep moving constantly. My body remembers every training session, every damn fight I have ever been in. I slip into it like a machine. Precision. Dodge. Shift. A hard strike with everything I have. Twist. Power comes from the hips, rooted all the way from the ground. I pivot on my heel, the force travels through my arm and lands.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
I hit them and drop them.
The surge inside my body is massive, and suddenly I realize something is happening to me.
The tips of my fingers start to itch, and my gums begin to ache.
But they, almost as if feeling their losses in smaller waves, form a larger group and start pressing in with a unified front.
I know fists will no longer be enough.
They’ll swarm me and tumble me to the ground in a heartbeat. I have maybe three seconds to make a decision.
My gaze lands on the metal frame supporting one of the spotlights aimed at the dance floor. With a powerful spinning kick, I knock it over, and the reflector mast gives with a sharp metallic cry. The entire lighting rig shudders, tips, and crashes sideways, scattering light and rattling. Almost instinctively, I grab a length of metal that tears free from the rest. It’s long, straight, and well-balanced.
