Page 53 of Deceive Me
The closest man lunged forward, a hungry grin baring the depravity within him. Smith cowered back against the wall, making herself small, and then, with a block and swing that slipped right between the man’s reaching hands, landed a punch to his jaw, to one side of his chin—a knockout point. He dropped immediately to the ground, eyes closed, unmoving.
Smith shook out her fist. Fragility fell away as she turned to face her remaining opponents. “Down to two. Who’s next?”
Both remaining subordinates charged the woman. Kivuli stood back, watching, assessing, waiting for Smith to tire herself out with the fight. He’d expected a trained fighter but not a warrior, and a warrior she was. She kept the men lined up, one between her and the other at all times, paying no attention to Kivuli’s position off to the side—or at least, not appearing to. No doubt she surmised his intent to wear her down. Her size allowed her to get under strikes and move lightning-fast around her bigger, slower opponents. By the time they’d turned to find her, she’d already struck—a blow to the kidney or the base of the skull, a kick to the side of a knee or the ribs or, even worse, a too-close hand; Kivuli counted a half dozen broken fingers. One of his men hesitated a second too long, allowing Smith to whip around him, drop down, and deliver an uppercut to his unprotected groin from behind. He hit the concrete face-first, hands cupped over his most sensitive anatomy, and immediately began vomiting.
Smith’s laugh was filled with exhilaration, her expression more alive than he’d seen it before. A feeling of kinship rose inside him as he watched. A worthy opponent indeed.
After an incredulous look, Kivuli’s final subordinate took the bull’s approach and bore down on the woman, no doubt hoping to use his greater weight to control her. Instead she gripped his massive bicep between her small hands, flipped to put her back to his stomach, and dropped to her knees all in one movement. The man flipped over her head. He barely had time to groan before a boot to his jaw ended in a shattering sound that assured Kivuli the man would not be speaking anytime soon.
Smith rose to her feet. Pivoted to face him squarely. One delicate finger lifted to her mouth, to a thin trickle of blood, and swiped it clean, depositing the life-giving fluid on her own tongue. And then she smiled. The heart of a warrior, a predator, was in that smile. “That was short,” she said. “Too short. I’d’ve thought my father could afford better help.”
The insult meant nothing—Kivuli recognized it for what it was, just as he recognized the woman for what she was: a hunter who shared the spirit of the warrior within him. He would not crush that spirit, but he would prevail. Purpose settled in his breast as he stepped forward into battle.
Without warning, a door behind Smith slammed open. A large man, heavily bearded, carrying a full trash bag, took one step through, glanced up, and jerked to a stop at the sight of the bodies littering the ground. “What the hell?”
Kivuli reached for his waistband, for the knife he kept there. The hilt was between his fingers for no more than a second before he threw it.
Smith traced the faster-than-sight movement for a split second, then lunged toward the man, shoving him back. Kivuli’s knife slammed point-first into the door.
“Get inside!” Smith growled as the man instinctively fought her. “Call 911!” She shoved him once more, back far enough that she could slam the door shut. Shouts filtered out, assuring him he would not make it more than a foot inside the building.
His prey had outmaneuvered him.
It would not do for the American police to find and detain him here. He retrieved the keys from his unconscious driver and hurried back down the alley toward the van.
21
The impotence of an unfinished fight roiled in Elliot’s gut for the rest of the day. She’d baited her hook, reeled in her fish, then been cock blocked by a civilian taking out the trash, for fuck’s sake. She’d been forced to allow the ghost’s escape in order to protect the noncoms around her, had been unable to follow him, trace him back to her father and finally finish this. She hated the feeling of helplessness, the growing urgency to engage Mansa before he could engage her team. She couldn’t find him, couldn’t do anything but wait.
And so she’d ended up here, in the ring at an underground fighting match, getting the shit pounded out of her. It sounded strange to say she was loving every minute, but she didn’t know how else to express the deep sense of ease every kick, punch—hell, even bites and hair pulling—gave her. It pushed away the world when it became too much to bear, allowed her to leave it all behind for a short period of time. It fed the part of her that hungered for punishment.
She deserved it, though she didn’t think anything could erase the memory of Deacon’s face as he left the kitchen this morning, Sydney tucked safely in his arms, protected. From her.
The punch hit her cheekbone like a bomb, setting off a starburst of pain that satisfied something deep inside her. Focus, Ell. Where’s your head?
She knew exactly where it was. Staring down the man in the ring with her, she allowed a grin to stretch across her face. The bunching of the skin made her face throb, rubbed in the pain of multiple blows. Every breath sent twinges through her ribs. Her bare knuckles screamed.
Elliot savored it, grinning wider.
Her opponent blanched beneath his dark olive skin.
She turned her head, offering him the opposite cheek. “How about another?” she asked, blinking innocently up at him.
His lips pulled back from his teeth. A growl escaped. She could almost see the calculations going through his brain.
He lunged, his fist shooting out.
She took the punch half on her cheekbone, half on her brow. Black eye—nice. But it didn’t stop her from catching his wrist on the withdrawal, whipping sideways to stretch him off balance, and planting her heel in his groin. The man’s body lifted half a foot off the mat. Even the cup he wore wouldn’t save him from that kind of impact.
He dropped like a sack of potatoes and gagged.
That’s number three down. “Who’s next?”
The referee—to use the name loosely—blew the whistle dangling between his fleshy lips. “Take ten.”
She gave the man an impatient look, but his back was already to her. Probably couldn’t take another minute without a drag. Elliot pivoted toward the opposite corner.
And came face-to-face with Dain. Over his shoulder, Deacon stared enigmatically down at her.
