Page 3 of Tate
Slava’s arm noosed his neck, but Tate managed to get a fist into the big man’s jaw. His hold loosed, and Tate broke free and rolled off, gritting his teeth.
Bad move. Slava rolled too, now on top of him, and grabbed his shirt. Tate put a hand on his wrist, but Slava’s fist found his face, and a white-hot flash of pain exploded as his nose broke. The room turned woozy, the pain cascading over him.
Blood gushed, but the smell of it galvanized Tate, and he roared through the haze and kneed Slava. Clipped him in the soft parts.
Slava cursed, and Tate battered his fist into his face enough to dislodge the Russian.
Tate rolled over onto his knees, scrambling away.
He just had to get his head clear. He’d fought Slava before—a few times, although never with his life—and Glo’s—at stake.
He knew exactly who had tracked Raquel down that night, who had made her suffer, who had left her broken body for Tate to find when he returned home.
Slava took his job very seriously.
The Russian grunted, and Tate glanced at him just in time to see the man sling a vase at him. It slammed against Tate’s hard head, shattered, and Tate went down, the room spinning.
Get up. Get…up.
And oddly, it wasn’t Glo or even Knox or even some key figure from his past in his head—his deceased father or Major Jaster, his Ranger instructor—but the random, misplaced voice of a twelve-year-old.
What was Jammas doing, rising from the dead now?
Get up!
For a second, Tate was back in Afghanistan, sand in his eyes, choking on smoke, Jammas’s hands tugging on his body armor.
Get up!
He staggered to his feet just as a lamp crashed down in his shadow. But Slava was off-balance, and Tate kicked him, sent the man spinning.
He might not win this. The thought cycled through Tate even as he lunged for his gun. The chair toppled over, and the holster went spinning across the floor. Tate went after it, but Slava grabbed his shirt and hauled him up, shoving him against the bar.
Slava’s bearish two-handed grip clamped around Tate’s neck, a hint of vodka on his breath as he leaned close to Tate. “In the end, she cursed your name.”
Yeah, well, he did too…too often.
Tate ducked his chin and grabbed Slava’s elbows, bearing down to dislodge the grip, his air trickling down to a sip. He hammered his fist into the big man’s ribs, but Slava was a bull, unmoving.
Tate’s vision turned gray, splotchy.
Sweet Glo’s voice found his ears, the vision of her onstage flashing behind his eyes. Dressed in black, her dress short to show off those amazing legs, her eyes closed, the lights turning her hair a white-gold. So breathtaking, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest.
Her voice had lifted, mournful and sweet, so much heart spilling out into the song, he’d nearly teared up.
She met him on a night like any other
Dressed in white, the cape of a soldier
He said you’re pretty, but I can’t stay
She said I know, but I could love you anyway
He could have, would have loved her.
And finally, maybe, become the hero of the story.
He hit Slava again, one more useless punch as his world began to blacken.
