Page 3 of Trapped Truth

There’s little warning before his cocked fist sails in my direction. He may have muscle on his side, but it slows him down. I duck the shot with ease, pivoting fast to spin before lashing out with a punch to his ribcage.

He barely reacts, clapping a firm backhand across my face that sends me reeling backwards. I blink aside the moisture in my eyes then throw myself into his orbit, twisting my body at the last moment to strike his open side.

Grunt. Impact.

He felt that one.

We parry back and forth, trading strikes, both vying for the upper hand. He’s good. Better than some overpaid skins stuffed into their fancy suits, charged with protecting their superiors. I’m almost impressed.

The cheers and catcalls of Gael’s guests form a chorus to accompany our battle. With each delivered hit, the volume around the dinner table rises. I can’t tell who is cheering for who as I sink my fist into his exposed gut.

When my next blow rocks into his jaw, causing him to stumble in a stupor, a loud roar fills the dining room. I quickly follow it up with a powerful roundhouse kick that knocks him onto his backside.

No hesitation. No mercy.

I learned those lessons the hard way.

Red droplets pour from my freshly split knuckles, splattering Gael’s waxed floor. Though he doesn’t seem to mind one bit as he smiles lasciviously, gesturing for me to finish the job. Even his friend, Dimitri, is smiling in sick fascination.

Looming over my opponent, I watch him pant for air. His face is sweat-slick. Breathing laboured. Blood leaks from a cut at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps I was wrong—he’s not so good after all.

My foot strikes out to connect with the side of his head, eliciting a delicious squeal of pain. With his limbs splayed and eyes at half-mast, it’s child’s play to strike his solar plexus and end the torture. Lights out.

I’m left barely standing, my legs badly trembling over my crimson essence, pooling on Gael’s floor. Pretty sure I have bruises on bruises now. My torso and ribcage feel like they’re being burned from the inside out.

“Excellent work, 768.” Gael stands to clap his hands together. “Just wonderful.”

Before he can get dragged into the debate unfolding between his allies, I dare to lift my stare. “May I be excused?”

“You may.”

“Thank you, Señor Gael.”

Their hungry gazes follow me from the dining room, half-walking and half-limping. Carlos escorts me without uttering a single word of praise. That would be too kind for him, I suppose. The best I can hope for is being permitted to crawl back onto my cot where I can pass out.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles at my side. “Another fight. Be ready.”

“Tomorrow? I need more time. You’re killing me.”

“Did that sound like a question, 768?”

I know better than to argue. He’ll only threaten to remove my tongue.

“That’s what I thought.” His lip curls in disgust.

An unexpected bark echoes across the courtyard before we reach the building where Gael holds his assets, causing us both to halt. Carlos’s hand automatically moves to the gun now strapped at his hip.

Crossing the mosaic of stone tiles, one of the paid suits who’d been in the dining room escorts the woman who sat by Dimitri’s side. I can’t help but gawp a little at her—bare arms curled around herself protectively, stare furtive, her steps fast and anxious.

As Carlos confronts the guard, she trains her sights on me. I flinch at the small, tan hand she curls around my wrist to pull me in close, leaving the two men to continue bickering in their own language.

“We don’t have long,” she whispers in a clear British accent. “I have some freedom, but it’s limited. I wanted to meet you for myself.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Willow. I’m Dimitri Sanchez’s wife. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You married that man?”