Page 43 of Ash Storm

Ash

“Choose your weapons, gentlemen,” the fight master said.

“I thought I was going to get my own knife back,” Ash said, frowning. “The one your guards took away when I arrived.”

“Unfortunately, we had an issue last year with a poisoned dagger.” The stocky man shrugged. “You get to choose one of the weapons Mr. Afsan is so generously providing … or you can use your fists tonight.”

“Okay, okay,” Ash said quickly, his hands palm up to convey to the man that he was backing down.

He approached the table where the knives were laid out.

He had to show interest in the weapons, even if he had no intention of being here by the time the fighting began. Not that he wouldn’t fight to the death to get Reka out of here.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see her dark, intelligent eyes on his—the way she’d chosen to put her trust in him, even though he’d given her little reason to do so. He wasn’t going to disappoint her, no matter what.

The hours since those two men had dragged her from his room had been torture for him. And though he’d expected that Afsan would keep the women locked up as much as possible, the fact that he hadn’t seen her all day today was driving him insane.

He prayed she was safe.

“So. What’s it going to be?”

Ash studied the knives. It was an impressive collection, to say the least. There were pocket knives, intricately carved daggers, a Samurai sword, a selection of large survival knives, a serrated knife Ash knew was used by Israeli special forces, and a few he recognized by name, including a Ka-Bar Tanto Black 600 and a Jagdkommando twisted fixed blade.

“I can choose any of these, then?” he asked admiringly.

“Each fighter gets to choose one.”

Ash’s eyes went automatically to the Ka-Bar. He spared a brief thought for the hunter who’d killed a bear, then written a thank-you letter to the knife manufacturers, thereby giving the famous knife its name.

Though he’d trained extensively with the Ka-Bar, and it would normally be his first choice, Ash forced himself to look away from it—it wouldn’t be the right choice for an Italian fighter with no ties to the US Army.

Instead, he picked up a Scandinavian survival knife, weighing it carefully in his palm.

“This is a nice knife.”

“They’re all nice knives,” the fight master said. “Mr. Afsan believes in surrounding himself with the very best.”

“Let’s not disappoint him tonight, then,” Ash said cockily. “I’ll take this one.”

The man made a note on his clipboard. “You can pick it up just before the fight.”

“Come, my friend. Tonight, we fight, but now we eat and drink,” the Turkish fighter said, clapping him hard on the back.

Ash considered the other fighter carefully. “I have nothing against you, Gezi. But if I’m going to have to kill you tonight, I don’t think we should spend the afternoon bonding.”

Gezi’s laughter boomed. “You are cocky, Romano, but I like you.” He shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe we won’t kill each other. Maybe one of the twins will kill us, instead.”

Gezi seemed totally unconcerned with the fact that, of the four of them, only one would be expected to live to see the next day.

Something sour rose in Ash’s belly at the thought of the twin fighters who’d arrived together, knowing one of them might have to kill the other.

It was the most fucked up thing he’d ever seen, and he’d seen some fucked up shit.

“You look so serious, Romano. You wouldn’t happen to be scared, would you?”

Ash’s lip curled in a snarl. “Scared? The man hasn’t been born yet who can scare me, Gezi.”

Gezi smiled broadly. “Good, good. That makes me happy. Now excuse me, I’m going to go get myself something to eat. I fight better on a full stomach.”