Page 10

“One. Right behind me.”
“Get back.”
He pushed her behind him and stepping behind the overgrown hedge. Her pursuer was already charging straight at them, eyes locked on her.
But he didn’t seehim.
Tom stepped into the opening and met him head-on, slamming into the man with full momentum. The impact knocked both of them sprawling across the pavement.
Tom recovered first, his training kicking in. He drove his fist straight into the man’s face, crunching bone. Blood splattered across the concrete.
The guy didn’t flinch. No cry, no hesitation.
She did, though. A gasp that he ignored.
The guy got to his feet.
What the hell?
He was trained, Special Forces, by the look of it. Tom grimaced determinedly. The stakes had just got a lot higher.
The man pulled a sidearm from his thigh holster. Tom recognized it as a compact Makarov. He ducked a split-second before the shot cracked past his shoulder.
Fuck. That was too close.
Still crouched, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard. The joint snapped with a clean pop. The attacker howled anddropped the pistol. Tom kicked it out of reach, skidding it across the road.
But it wasn’t over. The guy reached into his pocket with his good hand and drew a blade. Short, curved, lethal. He lunged upward in an experienced move, aiming straight for his gut.
Fucking hell.
Tom shifted his weight, dodged left, and drew his marine-issued Ka-Bar combat knife from his thigh sheath in one clean motion. The 7-inch carbon steel blade sank deep into the man’s chest.
The attacker made a guttural choking sound, his eyes locking with Tom’s in something like disbelief, before fading to nothingness. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the pavement.
Blood spread fast, dark and slick under his body.
Tom straightened, his heart racing. It had been a while since he’d had to kill up close. Longer still since it had been this personal.
There had been no room for hesitation. The man he’d taken down was a professional—he’d recognized the type instantly. He’d moved with purpose, his reflexes sharp, his technique polished. Tom had been trained the same way, cut from the same cloth, and built for the same kind of work.
The only difference was who acted first. And thankfully, he’d gotten the drop.
“Is he dead?” the woman whispered, venturing forward.
Tom gave a stiff nod, then knelt to retrieve the man’s knife and gun. He was waiting for the admonishment, the accusatory tone, but instead, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. I thought he was going to kill me.”
His eyes were hard. “He was.”
She gazed up at him, eyes shiny with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job.”
Protecting an American citizen from a credible threat to life.
He turned over the weapon in his hand, inspecting it. As he’d thought, a Russian-made Makarov. A solid, no-frills rifle. Common with former Soviet allies. He’d seen a ton of them during deployments in the Middle East.