Page 108 of Without a Trace

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“It wasn’t in your file,” Zeke said evenly. “The training.”

I paused, gloves half-raised. “Didn’t know I had a file.”

“You all do.”

A beat.

Then I smiled—slow and sharp. “Guess mine’s missing a few pages.”

He didn’t respond. Just moved.

The first strike came fast. No warning. I dodged just barely, stumbled, caught myself, reset.

Zeke didn’t pull punches.

And I didn’t want him to.

His footwork was sharp, military-precise. I kept up, barely. Took a hit to the ribs, got one into his side. The impact stung. The look in his eyes didn’t change.

“You waste movement,” he said.

“You waste words,” I snapped back.

Another hit. I dropped low, spun, and clipped his knee. He grunted—just barely—but didn’t stop.

He grabbed my arm, twisted, threw me.

The sand caught me. My breath didn’t.

Trace stepped forward.

“No,” I snapped, hand up. “Don’t.”

The boys stilled.

Even Zeke hesitated—barely, but I caught it.

I stood. Spit blood into the sand. Smiled.

“I can handle it.”

Zeke stepped back once, eyes unreadable. “Again.”

I cracked my neck. Rolled out my shoulders. “Who’s next?”

Rhett stepped in again. No jokes this time.

We moved slower now. Measured. I was drenched in sweat, blood in my mouth, arms trembling—but I didn’t stop.

He hit hard.

I hit harder.

When I stumbled back from a body shot that knocked the air clean out of me, Rhett reached for my arm—reflex, not weakness.

I slapped his hand away. “Don’t.”

He held still, breathing hard. “You’re done.”

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