Page 102 of Radar

Xander whistled a light, eerie set of notes.

The men looked up.

As soon as confusion filled their eyes, Xander merely dropped all two hundred and fifty pounds onto them, reaching for the one guy’s head to push him down so Xander wasn’t catching the goon’s cranium in his diaphragm.

Did that. Hated that. Almost died from that.

It was a genius move.

One guy ended up face down with his hands trapped under his body. Xander’s knee was on his back.

Xander shifted his other booted foot to the cobblestone, curling his toes under, ready to spring upright.

One goon managed to stagger to his feet, bringing his pistol around.

Xander gripped the barrel tightly. As long as Xander squeezed that barrel, the goon could exercise his trigger finger as much as he wanted. He wouldn’t get a shot off.

Twisting his wrist, Xander wrenched the gun from the man’s hand.

In order to heave the pistol up over the roof, Xander had to leave himself open to the goon’s liver punches. Luckily, the goon was standing, and Xander was kneeling on his friend. The angle was shit for a good blast, and the punches landed on Xander’s braced abdominal muscles without much damage.

The gun hit the roof with a thunk, then a skittering as it slid down the slate incline.

It must have caught in the gutter because the gun didn’t clatter to the ground.

Two goons. One gun.

Xander brought his fist back around in a hook, hook, upper cut.

The guy beneath him was squirming, and there was a high risk that Xander would get rolled with an ankle lock.

There was still a gun in play underneath the guy.

Xander pressed his toes into the ground and came to his feet. In the micro-moment when his knee lifted, the guy shifted to rise. But Xander slammed his boot against his neck, then drew back and punched the standing goon, who had grabbed a fistful of Xander’s belt, preparing to throw him to the ground. The punch landed, the goon’s nose squashed flat under Xander’s knuckles.

Blood spurted.

The goon’s head snapped back, hitting the corner where the sides of the arch came together. The crack was hollow and resounded in the courtyard with a nauseating echo.

The man under Xander’s boot had shuffled his knees under him, and he reared up.

This had all gone down in the blink of an eye.

Fluid devastation.

Pain and blood.

A sudden movement out of his right eye pulled Xander’s attention away from the gun that now pointed at Xander’s center mass.

Goon one wasn’t in fact dead from the blow that should have at least knocked him out cold. He drew a knife from his pocket.

The chair and pole that Xander had clocked earlier were behind him.

Xander reasoned that the guy with the knife would come for him. The guy with the gun would pull the trigger only if absolutely necessary. Here in Paris, it would draw all eyes tothe scene if there were a shot. The gun was there to incite fear. Maybe. Probably.

They wanted Elyssa.

And Xander had to assume they wanted her dead.

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