20. The Twelfth Man

Blaze fought harder than he'd ever fought before in his life.

One guy who Blaze hadn't even shot went down, and a bob and weave to avoid the line of a muzzle put his hand within reach of another merc. He had to open his grip and relinquish his gun to pull his hand away from the snarling soldier who'd grabbed him.

Three men were on the ground, shrouded in the stillness of death.

Eight men were still standing, but three dangled broken arms from wrenched shoulders.

That made eleven.

Micah'd said there would be twelve.

Another crack-blast of a gunshot.

Agony burned through Blaze's leg.

Dammit, the graze on his arm hadn't even finished healing yet.

He punched anyway, grabbed and wrenched and finger-jabbed and palm-struck, but his blows were less effective without the stable base of two legs. Nevertheless, his combinations of jabs, punches, hooks, uppercuts, palm strikes, slashes, and knuckles flowed out in practiced combinations, landing targeted blows on flesh and pumping breath and curses from bodies.

Shouting came from the living room, and the guys yelled back in Russian.

Blaze understood everything they said, that these assholes were shouting that there was only one of Blaze, that they would overpower him, and that they would drag both him and the girl back to New York to die.

Not on his watch.

When three of the guys turned their heads toward renewed shouting from the living room, Blaze saw an opening, hopped backward, and punched the fourth one in his grotesque tattooed throat, shattering his windpipe.

The guy sank to his knees, holding his throat as he silently gaped, trying to breathe. He keeled over sideways and spasmed, gray eyes staring.

One of them ran toward the other room where Sarah must be held captive. Blaze prayed she still lived.

But if she was alive, the shouting must be that she'd gotten the drop on the eighth guy who must be in there with her, and now she was battling for her life. Blaze couldn't allow that other man to reach the living room and outnumber her.

Even though it meant putting weight on his gunshot leg, Blaze hobbled the step after the guy and grabbed the back of his collar, yanking and throwing the guy to the floor at his feet.

The mercenary on the floor flailed, striking with his combat-booted heels and clutching at Blaze's pants, trying to pull him off balance.

Blaze staggered.

A chicken flew into the fray and attacked the guy on the floor with its fluttering wings, clucking a battle cry.

What the hell?