Page 26 of It Takes a Thief (Ring of Thieves #2)

So, instead, I unzip the gym bag and look inside. There’s a pair of shorts, a bottle of warm water, gauze and a roll of athletic tape. No mouthpiece or gloves. Peachy. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. This is going to be a brutal, no-holds barred fight until one of us stops breathing.

I have no idea how much time I have, so I strip out of my clothes and pull the shorts on.

If this were a normal fight, I’d be excited.

But the life-or-death bullshit puts a damper on the festivities.

At least for me, anyway. Pulling in a deep breath, I take a moment to mentally and physically prepare myself to fight dirty.

When no rules are involved, it’s a whole different mindset. And, in this case, it means survival.

The good thing is, I’m an expert. I fought in the underground circuit and for the UFC, and I’ve been massively successful in both worlds.

I’ve never killed a man in the cage, though.

Never taken anyone’s life. But if I don’t, I’ll be the one pushing up daisies.

And I can’t save Mer from a shallow grave.

There’s way too much on the line right now, and the stakes are the highest they’ve ever been—in the cage or on a heist.

Ever since taking the job as Merritt’s bodyguard, my workout schedule has gone to shit.

It’s imperative I get in the right mindset and prepare myself physically as much as possible.

Barefoot and shirtless, I start jogging around the barn’s perimeter, focusing on my breathing.

After maybe twenty times around, I start cranking out pushups.

Up, down, up, down, up, down. Palms flat in the dirt, I count to fifty then jump back up and dust my hands off on the back of my shorts.

I walk over to an empty horse stall, jump up and grab the wooden ledge above and start doing pull-ups. It’s dark outside now and I’ve worked up a good sweat when I hear car engines. Dropping back down, I walk into the stall and look out the grimy window.

Hell, it’s a damn parade of expensive cars and I feel like I’m back in Marbella at Alejandro Torres’s mansion. We managed to steal back an emerald he’d stolen and returned it to its rightful owner—Merritt’s friend, Princess Rose. It felt pretty nice doing a good deed.

And now I have to go kill a man.

Trying to come to terms with what is about to happen, I wrap my hands up. The gauze provides a little padding over my knuckles and around my wrists, which are currently abraded from the handcuffs. The tape will give support and reduce the risk of injury during striking and grappling.

It’s not long before Jeffrey’s thugs return. We exit the barn, and they lead me down a path through some trees and into a clearing. Suddenly, a spotlight cuts through the darkness and illuminates a cage. Fuck me . Barbed wire covers the entire thing, woven in and out of the chain link fence.

Gritting my jaw, I flex my hands, throw a couple of punches. My gaze scans the area. There’s a large crowd, maybe around one hundred onlookers, and I can’t help but wonder how much these assholes paid for the experience.

“How much for a ticket?” I ask the closest thug.

“Fifty K.”

I almost choke. “Fifty thousand? ” No wonder Dumas was determined to get me here.

“The boss cleared five mil tonight. Whoever wins this will fight again.”

My eyes narrow. I plan on winning, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to be Dumas’s lapdog and continue to make money for him.

“Get in there,” he orders, shoving the cage door open.

I step inside and the door crashes shut behind me.

On the opposite side of the ring, I get my first look at my opponent.

He’s taller than me, and that’s saying a lot since I’m six five, and he’s muscles upon muscles.

The dude resembles a mountain with mean eyes beneath a heavyset brow.

He also looks about ten years younger than me.

I’m still in good shape, but I’m not in my prime fighting form.

Jesus . I slide a hand through my cropped hair, wondering if there’s any way this situation could get any worse.

A bald guy covered in tats appears on a raised platform that overlooks the cage. He must be serving as the announcer. He introduces me and then my opponent, Bonecrusher. The crowd roars and whistles.

That nickname tells me he relies on brute strength to win.

I’ve always used a combination of fast footwork and street smarts.

And even though I weigh over two hundred pounds, I’m damn light on my feet.

If I can dance around this giant and tire him out, I’ve got a good chance.

My speed will help me dodge his blows, and I’ll stay just outside his reach, then go in and strike.

After the introductions, the announcer explains that anything goes. No rules. That means I need to protect sensitive areas like my head, back and groin. A solid hit to any of those places will have the power to take me down fast, and I can’t let this guy get the jump on me.

Time to do this. We both walk to the center of the cage to face off.

“I’m going to break every one of your bones,” Bonecrusher threatens, “then use them as toothpicks.”

My jaw and fists clench, but I refuse to allow his trash talk to intimidate me.

“Only one of us is walking out of here,” he continues and cracks his neck.

“Yeah, me,” I say. I’ve seen plenty of overconfident fighters lose, and I’m hoping it will be this guy’s downfall, too. Because my prediction is he’s going to come at me fast and furious.

The announcer reminds the crowd this is a fight to the death. As if these bloodthirsty onlookers need a reminder. They’re yelling excitedly, eager to see blood spilled. Hopefully, it won’t be mine. Or, at least, not too much.

The announcer lifts his fist and yells, “Fight!”

Bonecrusher lunges toward me, just like I knew he would, and I easily sidestep him.

He goes flying forward like an idiot and nearly wipes out.

Gaining his footing, he lumbers back around, absolutely furious, and comes barreling at me again like a runaway train.

I bounce back on the balls of my feet, hands up to protect my face, and pretend to dodge right, but slide left.

Once again, I fake him out and he completely misses making contact with me. The crowd roars. Right now, I’m all about keeping my distance, biding my time and studying my opponent. I need to catalog his methods, his moves, his tricks. Then I’ll execute my attack.

I do my best to tune out the noisy crowd and solely focus on the massive man who wants to put me six feet under. He’s pulled back, and we warily circle, sizing each other up. Then he comes at me swinging.

I jump back, but not fast enough to avoid a meaty fist connecting with my side.

Oof. Pain slams through my body, but I don’t let it stop me from delivering a perfectly-aimed blow to his solar plexus.

It catches him by surprise and momentarily knocks the wind out of him. He staggers back a step, glaring at me.

“You’re dead,” he snarls.

“Not tonight, asshole.” I’m ready for him, my fists up, bouncing back and forth.

What I’m not ready for is the panicked voice that yells my name.

“Linc!”

Merritt!

My heart sinks as I whip around and see her run up to the side of the cage. Her fingers tangle through the chain link, avoiding the barbed wire. What in God’s name is she doing here?

Before I can figure it out, Bonecrusher plows into me with the strength of ten men, and we both go down hard.

The impact of his mountainous body is absolutely crushing, and all the air is knocked from my lungs.

Motherfucker. For a stunned moment, I can’t move.

Flashbacks from my final UFC fight come back with a vengeance.

And then Bonecrusher begins pummeling me mercilessly with his fists.