Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 105065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
I use the opportunity to nail him with a left hook and a right low kick. A wheeze escapes his lungs when my heel connects with his shin, and his face contorts into a murderous rage. The crowd roars around us, shouting and cheering us on. Amongst the din, I can make out Scarlett yelling right along.
“Straight from the chin,” she yells out as I take aim. “You’ve got this Mack!”
So much for keeping a low profile. I block her out and focus on the task at hand. I’m not evenly matched in size and won’t have many opportunities to knock Donovan out. My best work with larger opponents is done on the mat. I’ve taken a liking to Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Judo for situations exactly like these. When I was fighting in back alleys, my opponents were almost always bigger. It can be intimidating if you don’t know how to handle it. But I consider choke holds one of my specialties. I’m hypermobile and therefore it’s a lot easier for me to maneuver on the mat than most. I need to let Donovan get me on the ground so I can grapple with him.
He throws out a left hook that grazes me in the shoulder as I dodge to the side. It hurts like a bitch, and he can see it on my face. He smiles. I hit him with a quick jab-cross combo to throw him off balance and set him up for the power shot. An elbow uppercut strike to the jaw.
This one really pisses him off. And just as I predicted he charges straight at me and uses his brute strength to slam me on the floor. It knocks the wind out of me and sends my tooth into my lip. I make a big production of it with my facial expression and gasping for breath. The whole shebang.
For a split second, he lets his guard down and gets arrogant, thinking he’s already won. Typical of most men, he assumes that since he’s got me on my back he’s asserted his dominance already. A true fighter would know that’s never the case.
I push my hip out before he has a chance to get his arm out of the way. In a flash, I’ve got his arm locked down and my legs positioned perfectly. I barely have time to relish the disbelief on his face before I execute the perfect triangle choke. My thighs squeeze around his neck while he tries to swing wildly with his other arm.
He manages to clip me in the face, but already his strength is waning from the pressure on his neck. He lifts the left side of my torso and tries to body slam me to get out of it. I arch my back and use one arm to block him as best I can while I hold tight. This is it, the real test of my endurance. Every muscle in my body burns from the energy required for this move.
Donovan’s movements grow weak and sluggish as his blood supply is cut off and his air slowly slips away. I count the seconds in my head and block out everything else around me. Three… four… five… six…
Finally, when I think I can’t possibly hold on another second, he goes limp against my body and Johnny comes over to check. He calls the match. I can barely even move as I crawl out beneath him, but the adrenaline drives me up as I scan the crowd around me. I find his crew and flash them an arrogant grin. Take that you bastards.
A few of them walk in to collect their fallen friend as the crowd filters out of the building. I wipe the blood off my lip and watch them curiously while I wait. I only need one of them to bite. One of them to take an interest in me. It can’t be the Russians. They have multiple factions and way too many members to count. The only way to narrow down my pool of suspects is to go straight to the source. The club where it happened.
They’re all tossing glances my way, but it’s Lachlan that doesn’t take his eyes off me. I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or impressed by the expression on his face. Naturally, he’s going to be suspicious of me. They come to these fights every week, and he’s never seen me here before. He’s got no idea who I am, but I know a few things about him.
Word on the street is that he’s twenty-nine years old. Born and raised in Belfast until he migrated to the states in his teens. Grandson of Carrick Crow, the underboss to Niall MacKenna. He runs Slainte and does God knows what else for the syndicate. The rest is a mystery I’m going to have to unravel myself.
My eyes rove over him, taking in every detail. He has a rounded jaw covered in what I’d guess to be about a week’s worth of scruff. It’s a mixture of coppery brown and just a couple shades lighter than the dark unruly hair that rests atop his head. His eyes are guarded and drawn together and probably the most fascinating feature about him. They harden what would otherwise be a soft and almost boyish face. There’s something almost familiar about them, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Sadness, perhaps?
It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s hard to tell. At present, they are drifting over my body. It isn’t a blatantly sexual glance, not at all. In fact, I can’t get a read on his thoughts, which is unusual for me. This man is growing more mysterious by the second.
He stands like a fighter. I can tell by the way he carries himself, but I’ve never seen him fight here. His frame is jacked. Lean, strong, and solid. His hands are calloused in a way that can only come from boxing.
He clears his throat, and my eyes shoot up and lock onto his.