“Troy Donnelly,” they said. The voice was male, flat and professional. Not a question.
I kept my helmet on and stayed on the bike. “Who's asking?”
“Doesn't matter. Get off the bike.”
“How about you go fuck yourself instead.”
He smiled. I could see it in the crinkle around his eyes, cold amusement that had nothing to do with humor. Then he moved.
He closed the distance before I could react, grabbed my jacket, and yanked me off the bike with strength that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
I hit the ground hard. Asphalt scraped my palms through my gloves. I rolled with the momentum and came up swinging.
He blocked the first punch with his forearm and slipped the second by angling his head just enough. He drove a knee into my ribs that knocked the air out of my lungs and made stars explode behind my eyes.
Pain bloomed hot and immediate. I staggered back, trying to get space, trying to breathe through ribs that felt like they'd cracked.
He followed without hesitation.
I tried to use footwork, tried to create distance. I threw a jab to keep him back. He slipped it easy and countered with a low kick to my lead leg that buckled my knee and nearly dropped me.
I caught myself barely in time and threw a hook that he blocked with his forearm, then I followed with an elbow aimed at his head.
He ducked under it and drove an uppercut into my solar plexus that folded me in half.
The air left my lungs in a rush. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only stagger backward while my body tried to remember how oxygen worked.
He pressed forward with the same brutal approach, clean and methodical, nothing wasted.
I managed to block the next punch. I took the one after that on my shoulder instead of my face. I tried to counter with a kick to his knee but he checked it easily, swept my other leg, and I went down hard.
My back hit pavement. My head bounced. My vision swam with black spots.
He was on me before I could recover. His knee was on my chest, pinning me down, one hand fisted in my jacket while the other cocked back for a punch that was going to break my face.
I grabbed his wrist and twisted. I used his forward momentum against him and bucked my hips hard enough to throw him off balance.
He rolled with it smoothly and came up in a crouch while I scrambled to my feet, gasping, ribs screaming, tasting copper.
We circled each other. We were both breathing hard now and both bleeding a little. I'd managed to split his knuckles on my teeth at some point. He'd opened a cut above my eyebrow that was dripping blood into my vision.
“You're good. Better than I expected.” His voice was still calm and professional.
“Yeah? Well you're still a piece of shit.”
He came at me again and I was ready this time. I slipped his jab and countered with a cross that caught him clean on the jaw. His head snapped back. I followed with a hook to his ribs and felt the impact travel up my arm.
He grunted. Actually grunted. It was the first real sound of pain I'd gotten out of him.
I pressed the advantage and threw another combination. Jab-cross-hook. He blocked the first two, took the third on his shoulder, then grabbed my extended arm and twisted.
Pain shot through my elbow like lightning. He used the leverage to spin me around and slammed me face-first into the brick wall.
Brick scraped my cheek. Blood was in my mouth now, warm and metallic. My arm was still trapped, bent at an angle that made my shoulder scream.
He drove his other fist into my ribs in rapid succession. Each impact sent shockwaves of pain through my already damaged torso and I felt a rib give. I heard it crack.
I tried to twist away but he had me pinned. I was completely at his mercy.
