But he was standing. And he held a rifle in his hands between Diego and me.
My rifle. In his hands.
I didn't think. The rage—the blind, animal fury of watching this man hurt Diego for the second time—took over. I launched myself forward.
Spur saw me coming. He had time to shift the rifle toward me, but I was already past the weapon's range. I hit him at full speed, driving my good shoulder into his midsection. The collision drove him backward two steps. Not enough. He was too big, too heavy, too rooted. His knee came up into my stomach and the air left me in a rush.
But I'd done enough. Diego was moving.
He came in fast while Spur's attention was split. The knife was gone but his hands weren't. He drove a straight right into Spur's jaw—a clean shot that snapped the bigger man's head sideways. Spur staggered. The rifle's aim wavered in his injured hand.
I roundhouse kicked the barrel of the rifle, throwing the weapon out of his hands. It spun across the concrete and disappeared behind a couch.
Spur backed toward the bar. No weapon now. One hand bleeding badly. One eye sealed. Burns across his right shoulder. And still smiling. The same smile he'd worn on top of me when his hands were around my throat.
"Two of you." His voice was a low rasp, damaged by smoke or the RPG blast or both. "Should've brought more."
Diego circled left. I circled right. Two against one. The common room our arena, the orange emergency light turning everything to shadow and ember.
Spur threw the first punch. A right cross aimed at Diego—fast, devastating, the full weight of his frame behind it. Diego dodged, barely, the fist passing an inch from his jaw.
The swing left Spur's side wide open. I drove a straight kick into his floating ribs. I felt the bone flex under my boot. Spur grunted, and twisted toward me, swinging a backhand fist that slammed against the side of my head and sent stars across my vision. I stumbled sideways, blinking.
Diego hit him while he was turned. A combination—short hook to the body, straight to the jaw. Spur absorbed both. His head rocked but his feet stayed planted. He grabbed Diego by the shirt, yanked him forward, and headbutted him.
The crack of skull against skull was sickening. Diego's nose erupted. Blood down his chin, down his shirt.
I came back in. Threw a roundhouse kick aimed at his midsection. The kick connected hard—my shin slamming into his ribs with enough force to bend him sideways. But Spur caught my leg. His massive arm clamping around my calf, trapping it against his body. Before I could pull free, his other foot swept my standing leg.
I hit the floor. Hard. The impact drove the air from my lungs and sent a bolt of pain through my injured shoulder that whited out my vision. But I kept my eyes open. Always on the enemy.
Diego had recovered. Blood streaming from his nose, his hands raised in a boxing position, ready to face Spur once more.
I was already up. Spur had his back to me, facing Diego. I didn't announce myself. I jumped.
My hand found his earring. One of the thick metal rings in his left ear. I grabbed it with my full fist and pulled downward with every pound of force my body and gravity could generate.
The ring tore through the cartilage with a wet rip that I felt in my fingers. Spur roared—an animal sound, guttural and deafening—and his head followed the downward force, bending at the waist, his hands going to his shredded ear. Blood poured through his fingers, running down his neck and into his collar.
I kicked him in the face while he was bent over. My boot connected with his jaw. The angle was wrong—glancing, not clean—and the damage wasn't enough. Spur recovered fast and came up swinging.
The uppercut caught me under the chin. My teeth slammed together. My vision went to static. The room tilted. I staggered back, my arms out, fighting to keep my feet under me.
I kept my eyes on him, using the sight of my enemy as an anchor while the room spun around me. Spur straightened. Blood from his torn ear running down his neck. Blood from his reopened hand dripping onto the concrete. The burned shoulder oozing beneath the melted leather. One eye sealed. And still standing. Still smiling.
"I'm going to make you and your knife friend die slow." The words came through blood and broken breathing. "Make it last. Make it?—"
A wet crack silenced him.
Spur went still. His head tilted forward. The smile froze. His eyes—the one good eye and the swollen slit of the damaged one—went flat. His arms, which had been raised in a fighter's guard, dropped to his sides and swung like dead weight. His knees unlocked.
He fell forward in one motion. He hit the concrete facedown with a thud that shook the bottles on the bar shelf.
Behind where he'd been standing was Diego.
His right arm was extended. Stretched out toward the space Spur had occupied. His stance was wide, weight forward, the throw still visible in his shoulder and elbow. Blood covered the lower half of his face from the broken nose. His eyes were dark and locked on the body on the floor.
I looked down.
