Seconds pass where nobody moves.
Then the man whose arm I slashed snarls something in Russian. A command for the other two to abide by.
They rush at Killian as a unit.
I still can’t see much without my glasses. The men appear mostly as dark shapes colliding in the middle of the bar. My hands feel around the floor blindly ’til my fingers brush against the familiar frame of my glasses.
I shove them onto my face in time to see the men launching themselves at Killian.
Three against one.
The odds should be stacked against him, but Killian doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. If anything, he looks almost bored.
This is just another Tuesday night for him.
Considering his reputation… it probably is.
He easily ducks the first guy’s punch, obviously anticipating it long before thrown. Then he’s driving an uppercut into the second guy’s jaw, which sends him staggering backward. The third one tries to grab Killian from behind, but he’s moving so fast and instinctually that guy doesn’t stand a chance either.
Killian snags him by the back of his collar and slams his face into the edge of the bar counter with a violent thud. He drops to the floor, completely unconscious before he ever hits it.
The first Russian has recovered and comes at him again, fists furiously swinging. Once again Killian’s a step ahead. He sidesteps the clumsy attack and delivers a brutal hook to his temple that drops him like a sack of potatoes.
Two down, one to go.
I’ve never seen anything like it—the way his fists fly so fast they’re almost a blur. How he moves his large body so skillfully, footwork impressive as he ducks, jabs, and blocks all at once.
It’s almost superhuman.
I’ve seen him fight on TV like most people have, but seeing it live is a whole other level.
As he sends another Russian crashing to the floor, the guy he delivered the uppercut to is ready to try his luck again. He comes up from behind with teeth gritted and his hand pulling a switchblade from his pocket.
I’m not about to let that happen.
It’s not really a conscious thought I make. More so out of pure spite and fury from how they’ve hurt me and Eva for years.
I launch myself at the Russian’s back like a spider monkey, wrapping my arms around his neck and clinging on for dearlife. I’m from Brooklyn, born and raised, and I’m not about to let these assholes get away with attacking me.
The guy barely stumbles under my weight before reaching back and grabbing a fistful of my hair. Pain explodes across my scalp as he yanks me off him and throws me to the ground, sending me skidding across the pub floor.
But I bought Killian enough time to realize the sneak attack in the works.
He roars and rushes at the last Russian soldier standing, fists connecting again and again as if the man is no more than a punching bag.
A left hook to the ribs, a right cross to the jaw, and then an uppercut that lifts the guy off his feet and sends him crashing into a table and chairs. He releases a pitiful groan as he lands in a heap.
All three men are down for the count, bruised and beaten on the floor of the Banshee.
Killian doesn’t even look winded. Truthfully, he looks as if he could probably take on three more men and come out with hardly a scratch on him.
He grabs each of them by the collar, one at a time, and drags them across the bar. You’d think they weigh nothing at all with how effortlessly he does it.
The front door swings open, and he tosses them out into the street like bags of garbage, their bodies hitting the pavement with satisfying thuds.
“You come back again, and I’ll gut you like a fucking fish!” he calls out to them, “then feed you to them in the Hudson River!”
Killian lets the door swing shut once he’s stepped back inside. He flicks on one of the pub lights, and though it’s still dim in the main room, I wince as my eyes struggle to adjust.
