Pain detonates so violently that the world whites out for half a second as I crash into the utility enclosure, and barely get myarm up before the next strike comes for my face. His fist glances off my forearm, hard enough to send a shock down to my wrist.
The next one goes right for my side again.
He knows. That is the first clear thought. He knows where I am hurt.
Maybe he saw the blood. Maybe he saw the way I favor the left side when I turn.
Either way, he knows my weak spot, and he is going to keep using it.
He drives in again, fast and low.
I pivot, or try to. My body is moving too slowly as I swim through the pain. It’s too much to set aside, too much to compartmentalize. Hell, it hurts more than the actual bullet did.
He catches me with a short, brutal punch to the side, directly over the dressing.
This time, I cannot swallow the sound. A strangled grunt tears out of me, and my knees nearly go.
He smiles.
I am going to kill him for that if I get the chance.
He comes in close, trying to trap my gun arm. I let him think he has it and slam my forehead into his nose. Cartilage gives, and blood spills hot across his upper lip.
He falls back a step, but it’s not nearly enough.
I go after him because I cannot let this become his fight. If he keeps distance, if he keeps circling and targeting the wound, I lose. Simple math. I need pressure. I need violence. I need to end it before blood loss and pain finish the work for him.
I drive him into the side of the house.
He takes the impact with a grunt, hooks an arm around my neck, and rams his knee into my side.
The pain is so sharp I almost vomit.
My grip loosens.
He feels it and does it again.
This time, something tears.
Something deeper than the superficial wound. Muscle maybe. Or healing tissue that was not ready for this.
Heat spills under my shirt.
Blood. Too much now, pouring out of me.
I punch him twice in the ribs, short and hard, but there is no strength behind the second one. He catches my wrist, twists, and my gun drops into the wet grass.
Damn it.
I slam my elbow into his throat.
He coughs, staggers, then comes back faster than he should.
Trained.
He is trained, and I am wounded.
That is the fight.
