Page 6 of Inferno

Conan straightens his legs and smirks at James.

“Shit,” I hiss.

A quick yet powerful jab lands on James’s cheek. Followed by another, and another.

It’s almost too easy for my brother.

James stumbles back and I close my eyes.

I can’t even hear the crowd over the blood pounding in my ears.

“The asshole is going to get us killed,” Finn says, drawing me to watch.

Conan’s fists become a blur as he unleashes a flurry of punches on his opponent.

It’s a fucking bloodbath.

James collapses to the ground and Conan jumps on top of him, easily shrugging the ref off.

Sliding my flip knife from my pocket, I hold it in my right, while my left is covered with a pair of brass knuckles.

There’s a strict no gun rule down here.

Fury engulfs me as I set sights on my asshole brother. Racing into the ring, I stop when I see James’ mangled face, the ref nursing his own after an elbow to the cheek. Conan sits back and I grab him by the neck.

“Your ass should have been on the canvas before this point, you cunt,” I hiss. “Get up.”

I square up to him, asserting my place. He might be a couple of inches taller than me, but I am above him in authority.

Even if he challenges that every day.

I’ll continue to remind him who the hell he is in the pecking order.

“I’m sorry?—“

I hold up my hand.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” I dismiss him.

No matter how angry I am, this can wait until we’re all safe.

I scan the room. Arthur is no longer in his original position. He’s our major concern.

I toss the flip knife to Con. The room is in utter chaos.

Fists flying, men cheering, chairs beating against the cage.

“Defend yourself only. This is not our territory. Follow me.”

Grabbing another blade from my pocket, I quickly jog down the stairs. As a fist hurtles toward my face, I snatch the guy’s forearm, twisting it and sending a hard blow into his face. The impact sounds like a dull thud.

We’re going to have to beat our way out of this hellhole. I spot Finn nearer the exit with the twins, Rowan and Reggie. With adrenaline fueling my every move, I barge my way through the fighting crowd.

“Oi. Irish cunt.” I hear from my left in a Cockney accent. Clenching my fist with the duster, a brawny man, smelling of sweat and stale beer, barrels into me, the impact jarring my teeth. I grab him as I’m propelled backward, my muscles screaming in protest. I unleash a flurry of punches into the back of his head until his grip loosens. As he charges again, I instinctively step back and then grab him by the face, digging my thumbs into his eyes.

His screams rip through me, only fueling my fire further.

He digs his fingers into my arms as I spin us around and push him headfirst into the brick wall.

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