Page 58 of Duty Compromised
He feinted left, came in right with a jab that caught me in the ribs. Pain bloomed along my side, sharp and immediate. I absorbed it, grabbed his extended arm, pulled him into a headbutt that sent lights dancing across my sight but dropped him to one knee. Blood immediately soaked through his mask where his nose should be.
Good. Maybe now we were both operating at less than peak performance.
He swept my legs with a move I should have seen coming—would have, if I hadn’t been favoring my left side. I went down hard, catching myself on my hands. The impact jarred up through my wrists and straight into my wounded shoulder, white-hot agony lancing through the still-tender tissue.
His boot connected with my shoulder—the bad one, naturally, because why would the universe give me a break—spinning me sideways into Charlotte’s nightstand. The lamp crashed down, bulb exploding in a shower of glass.
A distant part of my brain noted that Charlotte was going to need new everything. Maybe I should have gotten her extra renters insurance before setting this trap. Did they cover “ransacked by probable corporate spy”? Probably not.
I rolled with the momentum, came up swinging with my good arm, and caught him in the solar plexus with enough force to double him over. He gasped, the sound muffled by the mask, but when I moved in to finish it, he surprised me with an uppercut that snapped my head back.
Blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm. I spat it out, grinned at him through red teeth. “That all you got?”
Apparently not. He came at me again, a flurry of strikes that drove me back toward the French doors leading to Charlotte’s small balcony. I blocked most of them, but a few got through—ribs, shoulder (always the goddamn shoulder), a glancing blow to my jaw that would leave a bruise shaped like his knuckles. Each impact added to the symphony of pain playing through my body, my shoulder wound singing the loudest in the chorus.
We were too evenly matched. Every move I made, he countered. Every opening I created, he closed. We were like two fighters who’d learned from the same playbook, anticipating each other’s moves in a violent dance.
But there was one difference between us. He was fighting for a job, a paycheck, a mission.
I was fighting for Charlotte.
The thought of her out there, terrified in my truck, trusting me to handle this—it gave me a second wind. She was counting on me. If he took me down, he would have free access to her.
I caught his next punch and used his forward motion to drive my elbow into his temple with enough force to rattle his brain. He staggered, shook his head like a dog shaking off water, guard dropping for just a second. I pressed the advantage, landing a kidney shot that made him arch in pain, the kind of hit that would have him pissing blood tomorrow.
For a moment, I had him. He was off-balance, guard dropping, knees starting to buckle. I moved in for the takedown?—
His knee came up, catching me square in the stomach. Air exploded from my lungs in a whoosh that left me gasping. My diaphragm spasmed, refusing to work properly. He followed with a haymaker that caught the side of my head, and the world tilted sideways. Gray crept in at the edges of my vision, that dangerous twilight before unconsciousness.
The French doors exploded open under his weight. He was through them before I could straighten up, his footsteps crunching across the small balcony before vaulting over the railing. By the time I stumbled to the doors, he’d vanished into the darkness of Charlotte’s backyard—heading away from the street, away from my truck, away from her.
Smart. He knew I wouldn’t chase him.
I wanted to follow, wanted to run him down and finish what we’d started. My body screamed for the satisfaction of ending this properly. But that would mean leaving Charlotte alone and unprotected. The intruder might have a partner. Might circle back. Might have been the distraction while someone else moved on her.
No choice at all.
I retrieved my Glock from under the dresser, the familiar weight settling my nerves slightly. I holstered it, then moved back through the destroyed house. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through my ribs. My left eye was already swelling, vision going narrow on that side. Blood dripped steadily from my mouth, leaving a trail of red droplets on Charlotte’s damaged floors.
The house felt different now. Not just ransacked but contaminated, like the violence had seeped into the walls themselves. Charlotte would never feel safe here again. Hell, she might never feel safe anywhere again.
The thought made my hands clench into fists, knuckles screaming from the impacts they’d absorbed.
I burst out the front door, scanning the street with my good eye. Empty except for my truck, Charlotte’s pale face visible through the window like a ghost. She was plastered against the glass, eyes wide with terror, tracking my movement with desperate intensity. Her phone glowed in her hand, pressed against the window like she was mid-dial.
I crossed the yard in seconds, ignoring my pain. She fumbled with the locks when she saw me coming, fingers shaking so badly it took her two tries. The door swung open, and I grabbed the phone from her hand before she could speak.
“Ty, what?—”
“No calls. Your phone could be bugged. We need to get out of here. Now.”
“You just—what happened to your face?” Her voice rose with each word, panic seeping through. “There’s blood. You’re bleeding. Oh God, was someone really in there?”
“Get in. Slide over.” I practically lifted her into the truck, her slight weight nothing compared to the urgency driving me.
She scrambled across the bench seat, hands still shaking as she fumbled for the seat belt. “Should we call?—”
“We need to be really careful about who we involve next.” I started the engine, throwing it into reverse before she’d even got the belt clicked. Gravel sprayed as we backed out, my tactical driving training taking over. Never predictable. Never the obvious route. Always assume you’re being followed.
