The corners of his mouth twitch, but he fights it. “That sounds like a very bad idea.”
I bat my lashes with obvious feigned innocence. “You haven’t even heard the idea.”
“The only good idea is my direct order.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Humming, I scan all five men, who are most certainly invested now. “I’ve heard about all the fun that employees have at the Underground.”
“This is not the Underground,” he points out.
“I suppose it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves. If I fight all five of you—no weapons, of course—and win, then I get to go wherever the hell I please on a run.” I pull the gun out of my yoga pants, the knife out of my sports bra, and my other knife out of my sock and place them all on the ground. “If I lose, I’ll buy you all some drinks in the Underground tonight. And we’ll see how much fun we have then.” I sweeten that deal with a flirty wink.
“Fuck,” one of them hisses under his breath. He’s a bulky guy, probably only five-eleven, but built like a linebacker, and his gaze is glued to the swell of my breasts. “I can’t take my weapons off because it’s against protocol, but you have my word that I won’t touch them. Let me see what you got, sweetheart.”
A few others mutter some protests and curses under their breath, but I ignore them, concentrating fully on prey number one.
Twirling my hair, I cast a coy grin his way. “AllI’ve got?”
He nods with a deep chuckle, which makes his bushy beard vibrate. “Oh, yeah. I’ll take everything.”
“And this is all in fun?” I confirm. “Since we’re employees. I know members aren’t supposed to engage in anything—”
“This is different,” he assures me. “We do a lot of shit in the Underground. Our secret.”
So fucking easy. I’m nearly bored.
I release a girlish giggle. “All right, boys. You heard the man. You’d better step back.”
The others erupt in amusement, shuffling backward and trash-talking their coworker. It’s a great distraction for me to lunge for him. I grip the nape of his neck, slam my forehead into his nose, and knee him in the groin. He doubles over, flopping to the ground as his nose sprays blood all over his suit. He’s in pain, but he’ll be all right.
His groans harmonize with the exasperations of his comrades.
“Jesus,” one guy roars, which is piggybacked by another’s, “Fucking hell.”
They both laugh, much to the dismay of the bearded guy with the broken nose. Another stares at him, shocked. They are all probably expertly trained, but they underestimated me. As if having nice cleavage means you can’t be a force. And I haven’t even broken a sweat.
The original jackass immediately tries to shut this down, swiping something on his phone and spouting about how I proved my point, but I’d have to take it up with someone in a higher position.
A guy to his left has too much pride to bow out though. It glints in his eyes. He’s tall, easily six-two. He holds himself like a boxer, which reveals the type of combat I’m facing.
He cups his hands in a come-here gesture.
Gladly.
When I lurch toward him, he throws a punch, which I block. My father taught me a lot of fighting tactics. Most aren’t very pretty. They might seem like street moves, but the thing is, due to size and upper-body-strength differences, most women can’t meet a guy strike for strike and come out ahead. So, I lean into some dirty moves and find ways to get my opponent in a position where I can dominate.
With my hand on his forearm, he battles against my hold, forcing my elbow to tuck into my body, while he manages to get a hit under my ribs with his other fist. I ram my knuckle into his eye—not nearly as violent as I’m capable of since I don’t want the guy to be blind—and I side-swipe his knees, which takes him to the ground. There, I heel him in the crotch. Enough that a twinge of my abilities will ring through his bones for the rest of the day, but not enough to maim his little swimmers.
Another darts toward me from the side, hoping to catch me off guard. But I clock him in my peripheral vision, slamming my fist into his throat. He halts, his hands clawing at his neck as he chokes. He’ll be fine. In an hour or two.
“Who’s next?” I ask calmly.
The door swings open, and Maddox Noire swaggers out with the answer. “Me.”
While I haven’t been officially introduced, I read about him in the files Tripp gave me. And he’s unmistakable. Six-five. Tatted. Onyx hair, swept up in a man bun. Pure mischief.
He extends me a round of applause, a blend of respect and mocking humor. “That was fucking impressive, but don’t waste those skills on these dipshits.”
Then he turns to his men with a disappointed glower. “We don’t engage in backyard brawls. You wanna fight, you do it in the Underground. And we’ve got the No More Competition tonight.” He side-eyes the bastard sputtering and clawing his throat and swats the space above the two guards who’ve been grounded. “You three are obviously out. I had high hopes for you, Blackbeard.”
