Page 28 of Out of Control

And once he’d fallen completely off everyone’s radar, he could quietly reacquire the trail of his quarry and take out Jabril Hamza once and for all. It might take another ten years, but he wouldneverstop hunting the bastard.

A flurry of movement down on the beach recaptured his attention.

Asshole the First—the drunk braggart type—sucker punched Spencer. With no warning in the middle of saying something, he threw a vicious blow, a hard, fast fist to the solar plexus that would have completely knocked the wind out of Spencer’s lungs. Sure enough, Spencer crumpled in agony. Drago couldn’t hear Spencer gasping like a dying fish, but he knew the effect of that type of blow. Spence was fucked.

Asshole Number Two stepped in and took a big uppercut at Spencer’s face, connecting with his chin. The blow drove Spencer upright and arched him backward. It was a credit to Spencer’s incredible strength and balance that he didn’t go down right then. He staggered back, somehow managing to stay on his feet, and lashed out low with one foot. It looked from Drago’s vantage point as if Spencer had clocked Attacker Number Two in the shin or maybe the knee. It was enough to make the guy hop back hard and come up limping.

Ten to one that asshole was now swearing up a blue storm and threatening to kill Spencer.

Asshole Number One jabbed again, this time at Spencer’s face. Damn, his hands were fast.

Sonofabitch. That dude wasn’t drunk at all. It had all been an act to get close to Spencer and get him to let his guard down. And it had fucking worked.

This time Number One shot a fist at Spencer’s throat. Spencer managed to deflect the blow harmlessly past his ear, but if he hadn’t, that shot could have ruptured his larynx and killed him.

Drago swore violently.

That was not a casual punch. It wasn’t even a nasty beatdown these guys were trying to lay on Spencer.

The fuckers were trying to kill his man.

Rage flowed through Drago, its cleansing fire erasing everything in its path but the need to protect Spencer and to kick some asshole ass. Time slowed, or maybe his brain sped up, but either way, he took off running like the wind down the beach. His body was so charged with adrenaline, so light and fast, he felt as if he were flying.

Asshole Number Two pulled out some sort of short baton and clocked Spencer viciously across his hamstrings. The blow dropped Spencer to his knees in the sand just in time for Asshole Number One to kick at him. The guy aimed for Spencer’s head, but with a desperate, last-second twist, Spencer took the blow on his right arm. Unfortunately, the limb went limp, hanging uselessly at Spencer’s side.

Spencer tried to fight back, but he was at a terrible disadvantage, on the ground and minus the use of one arm. The men kicked and punched at Spencer methodically now. No doubt about it, the bastards planned to beat him to death.

Drago went into overdrive and charged toward the fight with more adrenaline than blood coursing through his veins. Seconds mattered now. Fractions of seconds mattered. Spencer went down on his side and went full defensive, curled in a ball. One good blow from either one of the assholes in the right spot would kill him. The two men peppered Spencer with kicks at his ribs, his head, his belly.

Spencer covered his head as best he could, but was completely unable to defend himself.

Nonononono.One well-placed kick to the back of his head and he was dead. Genuine panic tore through Drago. He couldn’t lose Spencer. Not now. Not like this. Not when he’d just found him again.

The assholes paused their assault momentarily. They weren’t on the lookout for reinforcements, and they wrongly—blessedly—assumed they had time to taunt Spencer a little before they killed him. In the last few strides before Drago reached them, he heard the epithets they were spitting at Spencer.

All his deep childhood rage, accumulated from every name he’d ever been called, every taunt, every bullying, every shaming, spilled over into his bloodstream all at once.

His fury shifted in an instant from white-hot panic to glacially cold focus. The attackers had crossed a line now. Any compunction about fighting dirty froze right out of his brain.

Pain. He was going to cause thempain.

Charging in fast and silent, he buried his left fist in the base of Asshole Number One’s skull, putting the entire forward momentum of his speed and weight behind the blow.

Without slowing, he slammed his right shoulder into Asshole Number Two’s left side, spinning the guy all the way around with the force of the strike. As the guy came back to face him, Drago reached out lightning fast and yanked the baton out of his hand.

He slashed the metal weapon against the guy’s face with a soft pop of exploding flesh and a sickening crack of bone. A dark red streak across the guy’s face erupted with blood. He’d probably broken the guy’s cheekbone while he was at it.

Asshole Number One, unconscious from the fist to his skull, thudded face-first onto the sand just as Asshole Number Two registered the agony of the baton blow and screamed.

Drago drove his left fist into Number Two’s face with all of his considerable strength, and the guy’s nose shattered with a satisfying crunch of bone on bone. The dude dropped to his knees, hands over his face, blood spurting everywhere.

With perhaps the prettiest golf swing he’d ever made, Drago took a hard swipe with the baton along the length of unconscious Asshole Number One’s face, laying it open from brow to chin with the baton.

There. Now they would both have permanent, disfiguring scars to remember the night they tried to kill Spencer Newman.

He flung the baton down and reached for Spencer. Gently he rolled Spencer onto his back. Blood poured from his split lower lip, and the left side of his face was already swelling and lumpy. His left eye was swollen shut, but his right eye opened, unfocused. Agonized.

But he was alive.

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