Page 82 of Fatal Pattern

The nausea came without warning. He doubled over, hands dropping to his knees, vision swimming. Sweat dripped from his face onto the wet sand. His body was collecting on a debt he’d run up over too many miles and too little sleep.

A flicker at the edge of his vision.

Blade’s head snapped up. A man sprinted directly at him across the sand, closing the distance with unnatural speed. Instinct fired before thought. Not a jogger. The figure ate up the sand in clean, lethal strides, every step too balanced, too honed. Predator closing.

Dark workout clothes. A balaclava covering everything but his eyes. The figure barely disturbed the sand beneath his feet, as if he weighed nothing at all.

The raised hand registered a split second before Blade saw the knife.

“You think you can take her from me?” The voice cut through the night air like shattered glass. Blade’s blood turned to ice.

The stalker.

Blade twisted his torso violently to the right and brought his left arm down in a desperate sweeping block. No technique. No form. Just flesh and bone thrown between himself and the steel racing toward his gut.

The six-inch blade punched through his jacket and sank deep into the meat of his left bicep. Pain exploded through his nervous system like white lightning, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The attacker used his momentum to rip the knife free, tearing muscle and fabric in one savage motion.

Blood, hot and slick, soaked through his sleeve and dripped onto the sand.

Blade stumbled backward, his mind reeling from the shock. He clutched his bicep, feeling the torn muscle beneath his fingers, the pain radiating down to his fingertips in waves. His left arm hung useless at his side, already a dead weight.

The fight had just started and he was already compromised.

The masked figure circled him like a predator, knife held low and ready. No words. No taunts. Just cold calculation behind those dark eyes visible through the mask’s openings.

Blood continued to flow from the wound, warm rivulets running down his forearm. The metallic taste of adrenaline flooded his mouth as his body prepared for what was coming next.

The stalker pressed forward without hesitation, his knife arcing in a vicious horizontal slash aimed directly at Blade’s throat. The blade caught moonlight as it cut through the air, a silver line of death seeking flesh.

Blade planted his feet and swept his right arm outward in a classic 360-degree block, his forearm smashing into the attacker’s wrist with bone-jarring force. The knife arm flew wide, the strike missing his neck by inches. Blade drove his right leg forward, his running shoe targeting the stalker’s lead knee with everything he had left.

The kick connected with a satisfying thud. The stalker grunted, his body folding slightly as the joint buckled under the impact. But the soft sand beneath their feet absorbed the force like a cushion, robbing the strike of its devastating potential. The man stayed upright, already recovering.

The stalker came back immediately, his knife transforming into a blur of silver death. Short, vicious stabs punctured the air like a sewing machine needle, each thrust aimed at Blade’s chest. No wild swings. Nothing wasted—each strike measured, precise, and meant to kill.

Blade gave ground, backpedaling toward the water’s edge where the sand packed harder under the constant wash of waves. His feet slipped twice in the loose granules, his injured left arm throwing off his balance. The stalker pressed his advantage, closing the distance with each retreating step.

The first stab came at his sternum. Blade twisted his torso, the knife missing by millimeters. The second thrust targeted his ribs. He deflected it with his right forearm.

On the third attack, Blade pivoted hard to his left and trapped the stalker’s knife arm against his own body in a tight clinch. His right hand clamped down on the attacker’s wrist like a vise while his damaged left hand, screaming in protest, reinforced the grip. Blood from his bicep wound made his fingers slick, but he held on.

Got him.

They were chest to chest now, a brutal, grunting struggle for control of the weapon. Blade used his weight advantage, driving forward with his legs, trying to wrestle the smaller man off-balance. If he could get him to the ground, pin him in the sand, he could control the knife and end this.

The stalker’s head snapped forward like a battering ram.

Pain detonated behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding. Cartilage crunched as Blade’s nose flattened under the impact. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with blood that poured from his nostrils. The world tilted sideways, his grip loosening for one critical moment.

The stalker wrenched his arm free from the clinch with surprising strength, his wiry frame belying the power in his movements. As Blade stumbled backward, trying to clear his vision through the haze of pain, the knife came around in a wild backhand slash.

Blade ducked, but not fast enough.

The knife caught him high across the upper chest and collarbone, slicing through jacket and skin in one agonizing line. Fire raced along his nerve endings as the steel parted flesh, adding a third injury to his growing collection. Blood began soaking through his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin.

Two down. How many more before he couldn’t fight back?

The stalker circled again, breathing hard but still controlled. Still calculating. The knife in his hand dripped with Blade’s blood, dark drops disappearing into the sand at their feet.