Page 3 of Radar (Iniquus Certified Cerberus Tactical K9 #2)
Slowly, Xander tipped his chin.
Straight above him, in the archway, was a third man who pressed his hands against one wall and his feet against the other to make a human lintel over Xander’s head.
It was so unexpected to see a man hovering above him that, even with an adrenaline brain, it took Xander a moment to understand what he was seeing.
By the time he processed the situation, the man had bent his knees. Without the tension holding him in place, his body—all hundred and eighty-ish pounds of him—dropped down onto Xander.
Knocked to the ground by three to one? Xander knew that, no matter his training, he’d be at their mercy.
Without a plan, Xander lifted his garbage shield to stave off the third thug, using both hands, thrusting outward to stay on his feet.
And to his surprise, it worked.
His adrenaline must be flowing at a higher velocity than theirs.
Xander tried to scramble backward, but the thugs quickly encircled him.
Now, only a block from the bar door, Xander yelled, “Stop!” This time, there was enough emotion in his voice that anyone who heard him would know that something bad was going down.
Fire , he thought. He should yell “fire.” As a child, that was the word his parents taught him to yell if he needed help. Few came to answer the call for “help,” but almost everyone came to the call of “fire.”
I don’t know how to say fire in Slovak . Xander lifted the garbage lid and stepped into horse stance, thinking that if he made it through tonight, “fire” would go on his short list of words he should know in every country he visited.
The men had their fists up, looking juiced by Xander’s behavior.
If this were a mugging, he didn’t have a single thing on him that would make them happy; his pockets were empty.
If these guys were Zoric goons, his lack of a cell phone to steal might just piss them off enough that he didn’t survive their beating.
Xander wasn’t coming out of this unscathed. That was all there was to it.
Now, it was up to his skills and fate to determine if he’d lived through the night and could feed himself in the morning.
As the first punch aimed toward his nose, Xander moved the trash lid for the block, pulling in a lungful of air to call out. He wouldn’t yell for Anna. He wouldn’t tie her to him or call her into danger’s way. But he’d allow himself to try again with, “Stop!”
Before Xander released his word, the guy in front of him perfectly aimed his uppercut, impacting Xander just below the ribs, knocking the wind clear out of him, leaving his diaphragm spasming.
He’d been here before. Both on the training mat and in the field, that punch was the go-to when the aggressor wanted someone to succumb but didn’t want to break bones or knock them out.
Xander had trained for this scenario, spending plenty of time in the pool getting body and mind used to physical exertion without air. He’d practiced functioning through the panic.
It would take at least a full minute before he got his next breath.
In that oxygen-deprived minute, he’d be fighting for his life.
And through all his inner dialogue, Xander was aware that his brain was still functioning in adrenaline mode, slowing time to keep him alive.
That meant this situation still called for more than just strength and training.
With a well-placed kick to the back of his knee, Xander collapsed to the ground—the last place he wanted to be with three men standing above him.
Xander knew to roll once he hit the ground, dispersing the energy and lessening the impact.
He’d learned to tuck his chin so he wouldn’t knock himself out cold should his head bounce off the pavement.
But he’d never trained on cobblestone, and the protrusions hit his vertebrae in a way that numbed his ass and shot fire down his legs.
Bystander attention still might save him, Xander thought as he kicked hard at the garbage cans, sending one flying.
It landed with a clatter. As empty food cans bounced out of the yawning mouth, rolling and clanging over the cold stones, Xander pulled his knee to his chest and kicked out, clipping one of the men hard on the shin.
The goon’s leg gave way, and he dropped.
With a quick retraction of heel to ass, Xander rolled his hips to the side and kicked the steel toe of his boot into another goon’s ankle.
The man bellowed from behind gritted teeth, hopping back into a doorway to recover.
When the third goon jumped on Xander, he sandwiched the garbage can shield between them. The rim was driving down into Xander’s clavicle, a bone so thin that it was easy to break. It would be excruciatingly painful if it did snap and would make lifting his arms in self-defense all but impossible.
If circumstances were reversed, and it was Xander on top, he’d punch the can lid and break the goon’s bone and feel good about it.
In this configuration, with the solid surface of the lid unyielding against Xander’s chest, trapping him against the road, Xander’s brain was at a loss.
He had no idea what to do from this point.
Xander was a panini pressed between two hard surfaces. If it were just the goon on top of him, flesh and muscles would allow at least a little flexibility, and Xander might be able to sip some air into his body.
Very soon, Xander was going to black out from compression asphyxia.
He’d grabbed the lid to protect himself, and that might have been a fatal choice.
The goon on top of him growled words that Xander didn’t know.
Xander pushed out, “English,” from the last reserves of his dimming consciousness.
“Where is monies?” The words were spoken with a heavy accent and antipathy. Each word was pronounced with a shower of spittle that misted Xander’s face. “Where phone?”
Xander shook his head.
The goon grabbed Xander’s hair, yanking his head up until Xander was chin to chest.
Xander was about to have his brains bashed against the rock. Clenching his jaw, he hardened his neck muscles to stop any momentum.
“Where is these?” the goon growled.
In a surprise reprieve, the man jumped off him.
His coconspirators jerked Xander to his feet, where they unbuttoned Xander’s coat and dragged it down his arms. One of the men searched the pockets and seams while the others held Xander’s arms in vice grips.
They lifted his sweater and shirt, running hands over every inch of him, taking the opportunity to land punitive blows as they went.
Xander didn’t feel any pain. Adrenaline was doing its job of masking in the moment so he could stay in the fight.
He’d feel it later.
The attack had been fast and violent despite the leisurely crawl his brain was taking him on.
This encounter was probably at the three-minute mark from the signal whistle to the rabbit punches he was bracing his muscles against.
The way they groped and rubbed every inch of him, Xander might have thought their intention was rape, but they’d asked, “Where is these?” This was a robbery, he reasoned—hoped.
Right now, Xander was rubbery on his legs, not yet able to hold his full weight. Not that he was trying all that hard. Holding him up made this—whatever this was—more complicated for the attackers.
Playing possum sometimes served a fighter well. In a moment, Xander could just burst out with his special forces fighting skills and take down all three.
Joking. He was joking.
Okay, maybe not joking, Xander thought as he wrapped his hands around the scruff of two of the men’s necks and banged their heads together in a violent blow. The hollow-sounding thunk of the heads crashing one against the other cast a nauseating echo.
Stunned, they dropped to the ground.
Xander raised his fist in the air and drove his elbow down behind him to break the grip of the man at his back and to feel for the guy’s position.
Nodding forward, Xander banged his head backward, impacting the goon’s face just as a light flashed in front of Xander with such high lumens that he squinted his eyes tightly shut and ducked his head to protect his ability to see on this gloom-filled night.
The light lowered to his stomach, and a woman’s voice, menacing and authoritative, said something incomprehensible; he supposed it was in Slovak.
The three men staggered back to their feet and shambled off into the shadows.
Xander fell against the wall, sliding down until he sat with his knees posted and his head curled over.
“It’s Anna.” She turned her light toward the street and did a sweep.
Xander realized she was breathing just as hard. She must have leaped up from her bar booth and raced to his aid.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“Well, shit, Xander.” Anna shoved her gun into her waistband and reached under his arms, dragging him to his feet. “You can’t sit on the ground without your coat. You’ll go hypothermic.”
As he stood, Xander looked around him for where the thugs had tossed his jacket. He noticed Anna didn’t have a coat on either. Yeah, she’d jumped and run out into the subzero night to come to his aid.
That’s how he remembered her from the AWG. If someone was in trouble, Anna was the first to plunge into the fray to help with zero thoughts of her own safety.
He should never doubt that her character was above reproach.
“They took the coat with them,” she said. “Do you know who they were?”
Xander winced as he took a step forward. “Me? No. Did you recognize them?”
“Why would I rec—Come on.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder, holding it in place with her outside hand as her inside arm snaked around his waist. “Walk.”
Xander moved gingerly to the bar door.
Before Anna turned the knob, she said, “No one knows I’m meeting you. My good friend Tatiana lives in the apartment upstairs. I always hang out with her on Tuesday nights and have for years. Those men aren’t associated with The Family, I can assure you. Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m here with you.”
“We can talk it through when you’ve caught your breath. First things first.” She looked up to catch his gaze. “Tell me truthfully, tough guy, do you need an ambulance?”