Troy roared, grabbed the nearest man by the vest, lifted him bodily off his feet, and threw him into two others. All three wentdown in a tangle of limbs and weapons. Troy was on them before they could recover, his fists hammering down with devastating force. Ribs cracked. Jaws shattered. Blood sprayed across the marble.
Ash moved like lightning, every strike precisely placed—a throat strike, a blow to the solar plexus, a knee to the groin. The men dropped like puppets with cut strings, each one gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Adrian had shed his jacket and moved with a controlled brutality that spoke of training most people never saw. He caught one man with an elbow to the temple that dropped him instantly, then followed through with a knee to another's ribs that folded him in half.
Noah grabbed a fallen weapon and returned fire in controlled three-round bursts, covering Viktor and Luka as they advanced through the mass of bodies.
Dom shoved me further behind the pillar. “Stay down?—”
“Forget that?—”
I vaulted over the pillar with both batons spinning. The nearest man raised his weapon. I was faster. The first baton caught his wrist and sent the gun flying; the second connected with his temple and he dropped.
I moved through them, using momentum and agility where they had size and strength. I ducked under a punch, swept the man's legs, and brought both batons down on his chest as he fell. I rolled away from a burst of gunfire, came up behind another man, and drove the batons into his kidneys, then his jaw. He went down hard.
A man lunged at me with a knife. I sidestepped, redirected his momentum, and drove my baton into the back of his knee. He collapsed. I finished him with a strike to the base of his skull.
“Cal!” Dom's warning came half a second before someone grabbed me from behind.
I dropped my weight, slipped the grip, spun low, and swept his legs. As he fell I brought both batons down in a cross-strike across his chest and heard ribs crack. He didn't get up.
But there were too many of them.
Viktor caught one with a knee to the ribs that broke bone, then followed with an elbow to the temple. The man dropped, but two more replaced him. Viktor grinned and engaged them both, his movements economical and brutal—one went down with a crushed throat, the other with a broken arm wrenched past its limit.
Troy was fighting three at once, his size and strength overwhelming them, but he was taking hits. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye and another across his cheek. He didn't slow. He just kept moving, kept hitting, kept breaking things. He grabbed one man by the head, slammed it into a marble pillar, and the man crumpled.
Luka's knife flashed in the chandelier light—another man down, clutching at his opened stomach, then another with blood spraying from a severed carotid. But a fourth caught Luka from behind and got an arm around his throat, cutting off air. Luka slammed his head backwards and broke the man's nose with a wet crunch, then twisted free.
Ash moved to help, and together they dismantled five men in under thirty seconds, Luka's knife work deliberate and methodical, every cut disabling exactly what it needed to.
Adrian caught one man's punch, redirected it into another man's face, and followed through with a series of strikes that dropped both of them. His expression showed nothing but focus.
Noah had abandoned the gun and was fighting hand-to-hand now, moving with surprising grace for his build, using leverage and technique to drop men twice his weight.
But more kept coming, pouring through the doors.
I spotted one raising a weapon toward Dom, flipped forward with both batons extended, and caught him across the jaw mid-flight. I landed, spun, and drove the batons into his ribs. He went down choking on blood.
A flash grenade detonated. The explosion was deafening—white light, ringing ears, and a disorientation that stripped the room of all reference. I rolled on instinct and came up with my eyes closed, fighting by sound and sense. I heard someone coming from the left, and the first baton caught something solid, an arm or a weapon. The second followed. I heard the impact, heard the grunt of pain, and opened my eyes to see the man falling.
Through the chaos and the smoke, I saw Dom fighting two men, his injured arm hampering him but not stopping him. He caught one with an uppercut that snapped the man's head back hard enough to lift him off his feet. But the second had a baton. It caught Dom across the ribs. He grunted and stumbled.
I moved without thinking. I launched myself off the bannister, flipped over the first man with both batons striking as I passed, landed behind the second, and drove the batons into his kidneys. He collapsed.
Dom looked at me, breathing hard. “I said stay down?—”
“And I said forget that?—”
We fought back-to-back for a moment, his fists and my batons moving in sync. Three men down in as many seconds.
Viktor had six unconscious bodies around him now and was engaging three more. His white shirt was splattered red, none of it his. He moved without pause, caught one man's throat and crushed it, drove an elbow into another's temple, brought his knee into the third man's spine with enough force to end the fight instantly.
Troy had grabbed a fallen weapon and was using it as a club, crushing and breaking with relentless forward momentum. Sixmen lay at his feet, some moving and some not. He roared and charged into another group.
Luka and Ash had become a single unit of violence, Luka's blade opening arteries while Ash broke limbs. They moved through the attackers like something inevitable, leaving bodies in their wake.
Adrian caught a man's punch, broke his arm at the elbow, and followed through with a palm strike to the nose. The man dropped instantly.
