Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
He grunts and starts wheezing. Sometimes, there’s a delay that happens with body shots. It’s like the person doesn’t feel it right away. He looks like he’s going to come in for more but then stumbles, takes a knee, and falls to his side.
The other man rushes in. I do my best to evade, but I catch a couple on the chin, rolling with them. Distantly, past my battle haze, I hear my woman and son gasp with each blow. I don’t let myself focus on it. This is war.
I’m going to take a few, but the idiot is getting overconfident. I weave out of the way, then lean back while driving my knee forward. It crushes into his gut, and then I sweep his legs. I kick him in the stomach the second he’s on the floor. He’s a criminal, a lowlife, a scumbag, part of the gang that wants to hurt my woman. Yet it still feels bad, opposite to years and years of training, kicking a man while he’s down. I kick him again, then turn as the body-shot man stumbles to his feet.
“You’re fucking done,” I tell him as his friend groans and whimpers on the floor.
He grits his teeth and walks awkwardly forward.
My body feels a little tired but nowhere near as exhausted as this man looks. Some people let their conditioning go when they retire from MMA. I never have. Before I met Molly, training was my drug.
He steps forward. Bam, I drill a sidekick right into his gut. He folds up, walking backward momentarily, then stupidly decides to come forward. Goddammit. I dance out of range, focusing with everything I have. It’s like playing a video game on hard mode, my wrists aching from the cuffs.
He chases me, and I raise my leg, getting him to drop his hands. He doesn’t want to be hit in the gut again, but that’s a mistake. Like a cobra, I dart my leg out and catch him in the head. His head jolts backward, and he lands on the floor with a thud. It’s a hard floor, not padded. For a second, I think I’ve killed him. Then he sits up, looking around, confused with that dazed look in his eyes people get when they’ve been choked out.
“You done?” I roar, marching over to him.
He raises his hands, whining. I turn to the other man. He doesn’t want to go any longer, either.
“Get them out of there,” the leader grunts from the darkness. “Send in the next three.”
My stomach cramps. Two against one is ridiculous enough. If even one of them had had a basic level of fighting training, I would’ve been screwed, and now three? There’s no point in arguing. I’d fight one hundred of them at the same time if it gave my woman and my son a chance to get out of here. Even if it means giving my own life, I’ll do it.
The two men limp from the cage. A moment later, three much larger men enter. All of them are built like me: tall, wide, and strong. One of them moves like a Muay Thai fighter, light on his front leg, picking it up and feinting, so I can’t tell what kind of strike he will throw. The other two are street fighters, but their size is a problem.
One of them is covered in colorful tattoos on his arms and neck. He rushes ahead, and as soon as I turn to deal with him, the other street fighter runs right at me. He sprints. This is a downside to being a trained fighter. I’m not ready for people to do insane shit like this.
He crashes into me, driving me against the cage. It’d be different if I had my hands, but I don’t. Stop thinking like that. He lands several blows on my face. My bell gets rung, and my head is hazy, giving him time to land a decent uppercut against my face. Then the trained fighter is at my side, kicking my leg.
Dammit. I throw myself to one side. Turning my back, a sin in fighting, I’m forced to run to the other side of the cage. Suddenly, I stop and turn. I spin with all the force I can generate and kick the tattooed guy right in the throat, driving my heel hard. He gasps, wheezing, clawing at his neck.
I don’t have time to celebrate. The trained fighter starts kicking my leg. I swing my leg out to take some of the impact. He grins and kicks me again. Then, the remaining street fighter starts bobbing and weaving amateurishly on the other side, but it doesn’t matter how amateurish this is. My leg is starting to hurt. There are five men after these two if these assholes keep to their deal.