“Alright then.” He stood and tossed a few bills on the table for his coffee. “See you around, Declan. And hey, nice work tonight. Carter didn't stand a chance once you got inside his guard.”
“Thanks.”
Rafael gave me a two-finger salute and headed for the door. I watched him go, then turned my attention back to my coffee.
My phone buzzed. Text from Troy.
Troy
You coming home tonight?
I stared at the message and tried to figure out what the right answer was.
Declan:
Yeah. Late. Don't wait up.
Troy:
Wasn't planning on it.
I finished my coffee. Paid. Headed out into the cold.
The walk home was about fifteen minutes from the diner, a familiar route through neighborhoods I'd known for years.
I made it three blocks before the feeling hit.
Being followed.
It wasn't loud. Wasn't obvious. Just the wrong rhythm of footsteps behind me, someone matching my pace too precisely. The instinct that came from years of being alert to threats, of knowing when a detail was off before my conscious mind could name it.
I didn't turn around. Didn't change my pace. Just kept walking while my brain ran through options.
Could be nothing. Could be paranoia from a long night and too much adrenaline still in my system.
Could be a threat.
I took a turn down an alley that cut closer to home. Narrow passage between buildings, dumpsters on one side, brick wall on the other. Snow was packed hard at the edges where people had walked, old and gray under the streetlight glow. The space forced confrontation if someone was actually following, left no room for ambiguity.
The footsteps followed.
I made it halfway through the alley before I heard them speed up. Heard boots hitting pavement with purpose instead of caution, the rhythm changing from surveillance to attack.
I spun just as the attacker closed distance.
He came in fast and professional, no hesitation in his movement. Threw a jab-cross combination that I blocked with my forearms, then followed with a low kick aimed at my knee with enough force to shatter it if it landed clean.
I checked it with my shin, absorbing the impact. Countered with a hook to his ribs that he slipped by angling his body, moving like someone who'd spent years training to avoid getting hit.
We circled each other in the dim alley light. Both of us breathing steady, breath fogging in the cold air between us. Both of us reading the other's movement, looking for tells and openings.
This wasn't random street violence. This was someone trained. Someone skilled enough to know what they were doing.
He came at me again, faster this time. Threw a feint high that pulled my guard up, then drove a knee into my midsection that I didn't fully block. The impact hit my already bruised ribs and the air left my lungs in a rush. Pain exploded through my torso, white-hot and immediate.
I staggered back. He pressed forward, capitalizing on the opening.
Threw a spinning back fist that caught me on the temple. My vision blurred, the alley tilting sideways. I stumbled into the brick wall, barely getting my guard up in time to block his follow-up, a straight right that would have put me down if it had landed.
