Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

“I’m gonna kill you, Knight.” And it was going to feel good. Cam thought he’d left that part of him behind in Bolivia. He hadn’t.

Knight rolled his shoulders, arched and cracked his neck. “You’ll have to wait your turn. People have been wishing me dead since the day I was born.”

“Well, I’m moving to the front of the line.” Loose and ready, he flexed his fingers and stood light on the balls of his feet. Knight might think he had the advantage because of his reputation and obvious crazy, but Cam wasn’t fighting for the thrill of it. He was fighting for Drea. No way in hell would he lose.

“Today is not your day, pretty boy.”

Knight shifted left, but not in time. Cam’s first punch landed with a bone crushing crack against Knight’s jaw. The other man’s head snapped back. He stumbled out of Cam’s radius and nearly tripped over one of the exposed tree roots.

They circled each other in the small clearing. Cold as a winter’s day in Siberia, the Iceman was in full force. Cam’s pulse slowed. His vision sharpened. He didn’t anticipate Knight’s reactions so much as he knew on a gut level what would happen next. It was like having an out of body experience. There wasn’t any past or future—only now.

The goon shook off the hit and stormed full blast across the clearing, his body low and hands fisted. His shoulder hit Cam right below the ribs. That’s when Knight rose to his full height, tipping Cam off balance and sending him to the ground with enough power to knock the wind out of his lungs.

The ground was where fighters went to die. Cam rolled and sprang to his feet.

Knight was ready. The other man’s fist slammed with deadly accuracy into Cam’s nose. The crack echoed inside his head and the warm rush of blood flowed down his face. The metallic taste hit his tongue, but he didn’t even stop long enough to wipe the blood away.

He answered with a right hook that smashed into Knight’s cheek. The other man reeled back. Cam pushed his advantage and followed with a kick to the solar plexus that knocked the thug to the ground.

Knight curled up, reached for his boot, and pulled out a switchblade. “What’ve we got here?” He twisted his wrist and made the silver glint in the late afternoon sunlight peeking through the tree tops.

“Too afraid to fight man to man?” Cam expanded distance between them, circled, searched for a weakness.

“Not as worried as you should be about your pretty face right about now.” Knight grasped the knife tighter. “I’m going to enjoy slicing you up.”

“You can try.”

Knight snarled and lunged.

Cam pivoted and minimized the amount of his body available to be a target. At the same time, he reached out with his left hand, made contact with Knight’s shoulder, and shoved the other man forward.

Knight sailed forward. His foot snagged on an exposed tree root. He went down face first like a felled oak and landed hard enough that the leaves on the ground bounced upward.

Then…nothing.

Cautious, Cam moved forward, ready for the other man to spring back to life. But Knight didn’t move. One hand—his knife holding hand—lay trapped under his body. He edged closer and kicked Knight’s leg with his steel-toed boot. Nothing.

Ignoring every it’s-all-over signal his brain was sending, Cam listened to the prickly itch eating its way across his gut and took a step back—

Knight turned over and stabbed where Cam’s proverbial gut had just been, then popped up and brandished the knife. “You know she’s as good as dead anyway. She’ll never make it to trial alive. Shit, she’ll be lucky to make it to arraignment.”

He slashed through the air. The blade connected with Cam’s forearm and sliced through a good chunk of skin. Cam struck back before his brain had time to process the pain burning through him. He rammed the heel of his palm into Knight’s nose, which snapped like a twig. He followed up with an uppercut to the chin and a hard jab to the squishy mound of flesh and cartilage that used to be Knight’s nose.

The other man collapsed to his knees, head and torso held upright while blood poured down his face, and his eyes rolled back until only the whites could be seen. He raised the knife, but it fell from his hand. It hit the ground at the same time as Knight crumbled to the dirt, knocked out cold.

Cam didn’t need to take a closer look to know that this time Knight wasn’t getting up. At least not until the paramedics arrived. Of course, with the paramedics would come cops. Cam would make the call as soon as he got far enough away not to get caught up in the snare.

Adrenaline tapering off meant his pain sensors ramped it up. His entire forearm hurt like he’d been filleted. He glanced down at his bloodied arm. He sort of had been. Cam yanked off his T-shirt, wrapped it tight around his bleeding arm, and jogged toward the park’s western entrance.

His Victory Jackpot was waiting for him right where he’d left it. He pulled his helmet from the saddlebag and tried not to notice Drea’s helmet. He’d given it to her as a loaner for the quick ride from the Orton’s brownstone to Drea’s brightass apartment, but now he couldn’t imagine anyone else wearing it.

He merged into traffic and called Maltese HQ. It was time for backup—God help him—and a plan. For once, it looked like flying by the seat of his pants would cause more trouble than it would help. He couldn’t save Drea by himself and he couldn’t do it without a plan. Whatever it took to make that happen, he’d do it.

“Maltese Security, this is Alex Lee.”

Of course that asshole would pick up. “Give me ‘Los.”

“Not available.” Lee sounded as happy as a kid who’d just won a lifetime supply of Sour Patch Kids. “What did you fuck up now?”