Page 172 of Rebel Hawke

Atlas immediately reengages, not giving Gordon even a second to prepare for the barrage of fists. His dangerous right hand lands on Gordon’s temple, sending him reeling back to the ropes, his feet giving out from under him.

He drops to his knees.

Yes!

I hold my breath.

The ref orders Atlas to the corner, and he bounces, shaking out his arms, watching Gordon struggle to get to his feet.

“One…two…three…”

Gordon gets up, and all the air whooshes from my lungs.

Shit.

I thought he had him.

I thought this was over.

But Gordon shakes his head and clears it enough that the ref is convinced he can continue.

He’s hurt, though.

His motions sluggish.

Telegraphing his punches so badly that Atlas can easily slip in jabs to the body left and right while dodging getting hit himself.

Atlas moves smoothly, circling like a shark watching for his opening to bite, an opportunity to end the fight with one swing.

Or to line up to take a shot that’ll end itforhim.

If he doesn’t keep his hands up, one of Gordon’s wild, frantic swings could take him out.

And maybe that’s precisely what he’s looking for.

That moment he can do it and have it lookreal.

Please no…

I thought I had resigned myself to the fact that Atlas may not choose me, he might not choose himself, but now that we’ve reached the point where it’s about to happen, the world spins around me as if it’s been tipped off its axis.

But then I see it.

At the same moment Atlas does—Gordon’s body turns slightly.

His left shoulder comes forward, opening up his guard ever so slightly.

And Atlas releases the hurricane.

A violent swirl of blazing fists followed by a heavy left hook with the shoulder that was never supposed to work right again that slams into Gordon’s temple with a sickening crack.

He staggers, tries to get his guard back up, but Atlas doesn’t let him.

Three jabs. A fourth. Then a right uppercut that snaps Gordon’s head sideways.

Blood splatters across the ring from his mouth.

And Gordon crumples.

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