Page 58 of Rescuing Aria
For myself.
FIFTEEN
Jon
The combat knifeslices through the air inches from my throat. I twist, letting momentum carry the blade past as I pivot into my attacker’s space. One hand traps the wrist, the other drives the heel of my palm under the chin. Not enough force to cause damage.
Enough to make a point.
“Dead.” I release my hold on Razor. “That’s three.”
“Lucky counter.” Razor rubs his jaw with a grudging half-smile.
His dark eyes narrow, already calculating his next approach. In the short time we’ve been training together, I’ve come to respect his quick adaptability and focused intensity.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” I step back, resetting my stance on the training mat. “You telegraph with your shoulder. Every time.”
Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the back of my shirt. We’ve been at this for nearly two hours, and neither of us show any sign of calling it quits. Across the training facility, Storm and Mac run shooting drills, the rhythmic pop of suppressed rounds punctuating our sparring session.
It’s only been a few weeks, but already, I see it—Storm’s voice carrying across the range, the easy rhythm of his movements syncing with Mac’s timing. Razor falling into step during drills without needing to be told twice.
The edges are starting to smooth out. Personalities clicking into place. The new dynamic forming its own shape.
Not a replacement of Charlie and Brett.
Just—something new that works.
Razor circles, danger radiating from his powerful frame. Former Navy SEAL, he moves with that silent, deadly control—like violence lives just under his skin, waiting for an excuse to surface. He’s a man who’s spent years perfecting the art of violence. Every step, every shift of muscle, honed by years of breaking bodies and walking away. His knife flips between his fingers—a nervous habit rather than showmanship.
“Again.” He drops into a fighter’s crouch.
I mirror his stance, watching for the tell I know is coming. Despite the exhaustion burning in my muscles, a familiar calm settles over me—the clarity that comes with combat.
This is simple. This makes sense. This I understand.
The attack comes faster this time. A feint high, then the real thrust low toward my kidney. I pivot, catching his forearm, using his momentum to throw him off balance. We grapple, a controlled chaos of blocks and counters. He’s good—better than good.
But experience trumps raw talent.
I lock his arm, twist, and suddenly he’s face down on the mat, my knee in his back, training knife pressed against his carotid.
“And four.” I release Razor’s arm and step back. He stays down a beat longer, breathing hard, then grabs my hand. I haul him up.
He winces, sweat dripping down his neck.
“Better.” I grab a towel off the bench and toss it at his chest. “You almost got me with the feint.”
“Almost doesn’t count for shit,” he mutters, toweling off.
“It does here. That’s the gap between dead and not-dead. You keep closing it.”
“Still feels like getting my ass kicked.”
From the doorway comes slow, sarcastic applause.
Storm leans against the frame, grinning widely, water bottle tucked under one arm. “Razor, are you seriously getting folded by Delta-Three again?”
“Step in the ring, I’ll fold you next.” Razor flips him off.
