Page 75 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
Closer, closer. The figure shifts in the dark, half-hidden by the branches. Big. Broad shoulders. Not some skinny paparazzo hoping for a payout. Whoever this is, they know how to move. They’re keeping low, deliberate. Trained.
Good. I’ve been looking for a fight.
I lunge, all force and momentum, tackling them into the dirt. They grunt, twist hard, and I take an elbow to the jaw. It’s a good hit. This isn’t some amateur. They roll with the hit, use my weight against me, drive another elbow toward my ribs. I block,slam a knee in, and we’re both straining, muscles locked, every inch of us trying to dominate the other.
It’s been a long time since I fought someone who could keep up.
We grind into the dirt, two bulls in a narrow chute. He slips an arm under mine and tries to lever me over. I drop my weight, hook a leg, and we slam into the hedge hard enough to shake leaves loose. Thorns rake my forearm. He grunts. I grin without humor and drive a shoulder into his sternum.
He doesn’t fold.
Thank fuck. I’m tired of fighting cardboard men.
He pivots, hips slick, tries for a throw. I break the angle, yank his sleeve, and we go skidding over gravel. It’s ugly, fast, quiet. No shouting. No swagger. Just breath and impact and the blank math of who breaks first.
He’s bigger than I thought—my size, near enough. Strong in the right way. Knows how to use his center of gravity, knows when to chicken-wing an elbow, when to relax to slip a hold.
He feints low. I don’t bite. He comes high with a headbutt instead, skull to cheekbone. White pop of light in my eye. I ride it, grab his collar, and slam him backward. He flips the momentum, plants a palm, kicks up—boot catches my ribs, skids. We separate a half step, chests heaving, both of us cataloging the other in the dark.
“Who sent you?” I rasp.
He doesn’t answer. He ghost-smiles in the dark—mean little curve I want to rearrange—and comes in tight again.
I catch the shape of his arm a half second too late. Blade flash, small and mean. He goes for center mass, but I jam him off-line with a forearm. The knife kisses fabric, then meat. Heat sears my left bicep open. It’s not theatrical. It’s efficient. He yanks back fast, tries to stab again. I trap his wrist, twist, hear tendons snap. He answers with a headshot, low and mean, crown of his skull into my temple.
The world tilts.
I hang on anyway. My left arm goes hot, blood slicking down to my elbow. My right hand stays on his knife wrist. We’re nose to nose, breathing each other’s breath. I try to knee him. He slides. He hammers my ear with the heel of his free hand. A high whine opens in my head. Gravel shifts under my boots—the only warning before he yanks hard, throws his weight, and we fall.
Impact. A spray of dirt. I lose the wrist for a fraction of a second—just long enough for him to rake the blade across my sleeve and come back for a third try. I jam my forearm into his throat, shove. Air bursts out of him. He buckles just enough for me to punch straight down. Once, twice. Knuckles bark. He absorbs it and answers with a short, filthy hook that clips my jaw and fuzzes the edges of the night.
He’s good. Almost as good as me. Almost.
We hit the hedge again. Leaves explode around us. He snakes his knife hand under, stabs once more, shallow this time, like he’s testing range. I smash his wrist against a buried rock. The blade leaps—fingers open reflexively—and skitters somewhere dark. We both know better than to dive for it. Diving gets you killed.
He adjusts instantly, palms my shoulder, and drives his forehead into mine.
That does it. My knees wobble. The cut in my arm spits fresh warmth. He feels the wobble—predators always do—and rams me with everything he’s got. I stumble, heel catches the edge of a landscaping stone, balance goes, and the back of my head kisses the ground hard.
For a beat, I’m falling inside my skull. The sky rips open and closes again.
When I blink, he’s already up, already moving. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t finish. He sprints. Not toward the fence. Toward the side yard, where the shadow between hedges turns into a path. He knows the grounds. He did recon.
I force my body to answer. Sit, stand, stagger. The left bicep is a live wire. Blood runs hot down my forearm, fills my palm, drips off my fingertips. I press the wound hard with my right hand and jog, vision juddering with each step.
“Hey!” I bark, mostly to test my voice. It’s there, rough and pissed. “Coward.”
He doesn’t look back.
He disappears behind a cluster of camellias. I crash through after him and almost trip over the bag he’s dropped in his rush. A duffel. Heavy. Industrial nylon. Black, no brand, no flair. The zipper’s open a touch, enough to show me gray edges and taped shapes tucked inside like bricks that were never meant for building anything.
Bricks of C-4, if I’m seeing clearly.
I pivot, scanning the dark. Listen. The night breathes around me, unconcerned. The intruder is gone—fast, clean, just like he came. I crouch, palm still clamped to my arm, and nudge thezipper wider with two fingers. The shapes are neat, stacked, wired. There’s a handset tucked against the side.
He didn’t come to scare her. He came to murder her.
The world spins—focus.
