The smile widened. “Does it matter?”
Then he moved.
Fast.
Professional close-quarters training. The man closed distance in three strides, leading with a feint high before driving low toward Zach’s center mass. Trying to get inside his reach, the blade aimed for his liver
Zach pivoted, letting the charge pass, and drove an elbow into the man’s temple while twisting the knife wrist with hisother hand. The knife clattered to the floor and Zach kicked it away.
The man twisted, brought his forearm up to deflect, and countered with a palm strike toward Zach’s throat.
Zach caught the hand, redirected the momentum, and slammed the man into the nearest console. Metal crunched. The man grunted but recovered, using the impact to push off and create separation.
They circled.
The control room’s confined space worked both ways—limited movement but plenty of obstacles for leverage. The man grabbed a loose cable bundle, whipped it toward Zach’s face. Distraction. His other hand dropped to his boot.
Knife.
Backup. Four-inch blade. Fixed. Tactical design.
The man came in fast, blade leading—edge angled for gutting. Trying to drive Zach back, force him into the equipment.
Zach didn’t retreat.
He stepped inside the knife’s arc, caught the man’s wrist with his left hand, and drove his right fist into the exposed ribs. Once. Twice. Something cracked.
The man’s breath exploded out. Desperation makes fighters stupid—he twisted hard, trying to wrench his knife hand free, and slashed wildly.
Pain flared across Zach’s forearm. Sharp, clean. The blade opened skin from elbow to wrist.
Not deep. But enough.
Blood welled dark against his skin. Enough to slow him if the fight continued long.
The man’s eyes tracked to the wound, seeing success?—
Mistake.
Zach’s hand shot forward, caught the man’s throat, and slammed him backward into the server rack. The whole unit shook. Monitors flickered.
Zach twisted the man’s knife wrist. Simple. Efficient. Leverage and angle. The blade clattered to the floor.
The man tried to fight. Brought his knee up toward Zach’s groin. Zach blocked with his thigh, absorbed the impact, and drove the man’s head into the metal frame.
Once.
Twice.
The third impact left him unconscious.
Zach let him drop. With a quick motion, he grabbed a set of flex-cuffs and secured the man’s wrists.
Silence settled back over the control room. Just the hum of servers and Zach’s controlled breathing.
He rolled his injured arm, testing. Stung. Full range of motion. Bleeding slowing. He’d deal with it later.
First, evidence.
