Page 101 of Four Cards Exposed

As if he could read James’s mind, the man turned to him and grinned, spitting out something in fast Spanish. The crowd roared in response.

Don’t bother. I can’t understand a word you’re saying, buddy.

“He wants to kill you, James,” Susan’s voice said quietly behind him.

“Let him try,” James said, and this time he bared his own teeth.

“Gomez, Gomez,” the crowd chanted.

All hope that his size would slow the man down died when the man threw his first punch combination. The strikes came in hard and fast, and it was all James could do to duck and weave and try to avoid serious injury.

The moment he slowed down, his opponent’s fist slammed into his jaw. James’s body shook. He felt the jarring impact all the way to his brain.

James retaliated with what should have been a hard punch to the nose, but he miscalculated and ended up hitting the man’s cheekbone instead.

Shit.

Pain radiated upwards, all the way to his shoulder, hard enough that James knew he’d either broken or dislocated his knuckles.

The pain was strong enough to make him gag, but James couldn’t let it stop him.

He knew you could hit with a dislocated—even a broken—knuckle. You just had to push through.

Push through.

James had been pushing through his entire life. Pushing through anger, pushing through fear. Always in control.

But control wouldn’t help him now. He needed to shed that control now—like a snake shedding skin it no longer needed.

It was easier than he’d expected. Susan had shattered through his control long ago, and the thought of her at the hands of these animals was enough to bury the rest of it. He would do anything—anything—to protect her. He’d push through the pain. He’d bathe in the blood of his opponents, if that’s what it took.

His opponent smirked—he also recognized a broken knuckle when he saw one—but his eyes widened in surprise when James continued hitting with his injured hand. And then he wasn’t grinning anymore.

James punched and ducked and weaved, losing track of how many opponents he faced, their faces just a blur in front of him. Someone struck his chest, and he felt his ribs—which hadn’t healed properly yet—crack again. In response, he smashed his palm against somebody’s eardrum, saw the blood sputter and kept right on hitting.

Susan had been silent for a while. He sneaked a look at her, needing that contact, needing to see that she was okay.

Okay?

She’s never going to be okay after this.

She stared straight at him. No longer whimpering. No longer crying. Her dark eyes shone with something he’d never seen in them before.

James roared.

He’d kill them all if that’s what it took.

And then something glinted in the darkness in front of him. A knife. It looked like a tanto blade.

James saw Mendoza nod grimly from the sidelines and realized he was getting too close to the end of the hat—and they’d never intended to let him go.

Susan yelled something, her voice high-pitched and full of anguish.

The man slashed left and right.

Idiot.

Tanto blades are made for stabbing, not for slicing.