“Got a pistol,” he admitted, “but it’s not loaded.”
“Toss it.”
Rick did. It wouldn’t help him anyway.
As soon as his Glock 22 hit the dirt, Boone did something that surprised Rick. He withdrew his gun from his holster, engaged the safety, and threw it after Rick’s. It skittered across the gravel, landing out of reach of both men.
Boone moved into the reach of the lamppost. With a spark of excitement in his eyes and a small smile on his face, Boone gestured at himself, inviting Rick to charge.
Hand to hand combat. Fighting in close quarters. Let the best man win.
Boone was waiting for him. He braced his body, expecting Rick to come out swinging. And he did. He was already winding up, rearing back to strike as soon as he was close enough. His fist hit Boone’s face with a meaty thud. Boone’s head snapped back, his lip curled, and he got Rick right in the gut.
Rick went for Boone’s eyes. Anything to disable him. Boone dodged it, almost leveling Rick with a kick to the groin. He avoided it, plus the two punches thrown in succession behind it, but got tossed back when Boone wrenched Rick’s shoulder and yanked.
Rick got free, the burn racing up his arm, tweaking his old neck injury. He shook it off, diving at Boone shoulder first.
Knocking the wind out of the big man, Rick thought he found an advantage. It lasted seconds before Boone recovered his breath, then got him with a leg sweep. Rick hit the ground hard, rolling away just in time to miss being kicked in the side.
He popped up, looking for some opportunity, some weakness of Boone’s he could exploit.
Nothing.
Damn it.
They were just too evenly matched. Both men were military trained, aiming for the same spots, knowing where to hit and just how hard to strike to knock an opponent back, try to get him down.
He launched himself at Boone, hammering him with a volley of open-handed slaps, trying to tire Boone out, maybe encourage him to make a mistake. He put the other Marine on the defensive, forcing Boone to use more energy to knock his arms back.
But he got too close and Boone got him in the rib. Rick shielded his weaker side, giving Boone the edge. With a vicious snarl, the bodyguard went for a kill shot.
Rick just managed to block it. Avoiding the death strike to the throat, Rick gave a short jab straight at Boone’s solar plexus, grunting as Boone took the hit.
Boone immediately retaliated with a powerful punch. He clocked Rick dead in the face.
He heard the crack, felt the searing pain of a broken nose, and twisted away. Tears blinded him. He slapped at them, then gave his throbbing nose a tweak. Once he reset it, the ache dulled and he pushed past it.
Beneath the nearest spotlight, Boone’s dark eyes gleamed. He was barely out of breath. Half his face was battered, splattered with blood—some of it was his, some Rick’s—and his lip was split. When he grinned, it was a gruesome grimace.
“That all you have, Hart?”
The big bastard was proud. Rick was infinitely more motivated.
When he was on active duty in the Marines, he lived by their core values: honor, courage, and commitment. He liked to think that he still did, even now that he was back home instead of with his unit. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Swapping his cammies for a deputy’s uniform didn’t change that.
But there was another mantra that he was suddenly reminded of as he landed a solid right that had Boone’s head jerking back.
Improvise.
Adapt.
Overcome.
This wasn’t just about him. He wasn’t fighting to save his own life, though the penalty of losing this battle was promised in each blow he either took or dodged. Boone would destroy him like any other enemy if he gave the man the opportunity. Which he wouldn’t. For the first time in a long time, Rick finally had something to fight for. Something to live for.
He thought of Grace again. The memory of her smile, the feel of her long hair sliding along his bare chest, the taste of her kiss. If he didn’t shut Boone down now, Grace would be next.
Without even really thinking about, he knew she was already gone. Mathers, too. Why else would he leave his bodyguard behind to confront Rick? Grace’s car was there—but there was no sign of the blasted Jaguar that was the rich man’s calling card.