Fighting Dirty

The idiot robber laughed, as if amused by whatever he thought might be going down in that small office.

The five-year-old started to cry, drawing the robber’s attention. Armie stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the boy. Surprised, the robber looked into his eyes, and whatever he saw there clearly alarmed him.

“Don’t try it,” the robber warned.

Armie held up his hands—but he didn’t look away.

“Give me the damn money,” the thug shouted, and the college guy came back, holding the bag out to him.

“Set it there,” he said, indicating a kiosk filled with deposit and withdrawal slips. “Then get your ass over there with the others.”

“Okay, sure.”

Impressed, Armie watched the young man set the bag down slowly and back away. College boy looked to be nineteen or twenty at the most, but he was smart, taking his time—giving Armie an opportunity to evaluate things.

The gunman looked skittish. Above the scarf, faded blue eyes repeatedly flinched left and right. The hand holding the gun trembled ever so slightly. He kept shifting his feet as if resisting the urge to run.

Rolling a shoulder, Armie loosened up. Should be a piece of cake.

Another thump sounded in the office and Merissa cried out, sending a stab of fear straight through Armie’s heart and stealing what little patience he had left. Taking a step away from the others, Armie regained the robber’s attention. The college kid, pitching in, went in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” Panicked, the thug swung the gun left, then right. “Stop moving. Both of you.”

Making sure the idiot focused on him and only him, Armie inched toward him. “Or what?”

“I’ll fucking shoot you, that’s what!”

Ice-cold with fury, desperate to see Merissa safe, Armie smirked. “Yeah? With the safety on?” Closer and closer.

The guy breathed fast. Even beneath the thick coat, Armie could see the bellowing of his chest. “Glocks don’t have safeties.”

“That’s not a Glock, asshole.”

The second the guy glanced down, Armie kicked out and the gun went flying. It skidded across the floor and under the kiosk. The college kid slid down to his knees, trying to retrieve the gun.

“Help!” the gunman got out a mere second before Armie’s fist met his face, sending him wheeling backward, tumbling over his own feet to wipe out on the floor. His head smacked with a thump, dazing him, keeping him from rebounding to his feet.

More noises sounded from the office.

Already charging toward it, Armie whispered, “Get down!” to the other customers, who, except for the college guy, immediately hunkered on the floor together. That put them to the side of the office door. Armie reached it just as the door flew open. He had only a split second to see Merissa locked in front of the gunman, secured with a meaty arm tight around her throat. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess, but her gaze was incendiary. Rage, more than fear, consumed her.

A large bruise already showed on her jaw and she clutched at the restraining arm as if struggling to get air.

The gun, thankfully, wasn’t aimed at her.

The man held it outward on a stiffened arm, giving Armie the perfect opportunity to grab the trigger well with his left hand, and strike the man’s wrist with his right. The bastard didn’t have a chance to get a shot off before Armie had control of the gun.

Cursing, the thug shoved Merissa into Armie, unbalancing them both. He caught her, and as she scrambled to regain her balance, she inadvertently knocked the gun from his hand.

Seeing a ham-sized fist aimed his way, Armie gave her yet another quick push to put her out of harm’s way and took the punch to the chin. It snapped his head back, but hell, he could take a punch. He shook it off—then went about demolishing the bastard who’d dared to touch Merissa.

Armie had always been a fast, adaptable fighter. He moved by rote, adjusting as he needed to, dodging blows while landing his own with added force. The robber was big and muscular. Armie felt the bastard’s nose crunch, saw blood spray from his mouth.

Women screamed and the five-year-old cried.

The college guy yelled something, and a second later the other gunman, who’d finally regained his wits, hefted a fifteen-pound post from a rope barrier used to keep customers in line. He brought it down across Armie’s back.

And mother-fuck, that hurt.

It knocked him to the ground, but it didn’t stop him. Hell, his ground game was as good as his stand-up.

Two to one made it a little trickier. Normally he’d consider that a piece of cake, but not with so many possible victims in the way.

The man who’d hurt Merissa tried to kick him in the ribs while he was down. Armie caught his leg and jerked him to his back. He landed awkwardly, cursed and immediately rolled to a less defenseless position.

The man wasn’t a slouch. As a fighter, Armie recognized right off that the guy had some training.

Merissa tried to assist him, but Armie barked for her to stay back. College boy tried to edge in, but with fists and legs churning fast, it wasn’t easy.

Or necessary.

Both men together were still no match for Armie. He bounced back, regaining his feet just as the second man again swung the heavy post. Armie ducked, but the post clipped him on the forehead, stunning him and sending a trickle of blood into his eyes. He swiped at it, and heard Merissa gasp.

The man who’d followed her into her office had retrieved one of the guns and had it aimed at her, point-blank.

Armie barely remembered moving, but a split second later he stood in front of her, spreading his arms and using his body to shield her.

“Armie,” she pleaded.

Blocking out her shaking voice, he kept her tucked behind him, his gaze locked on the gunman. The robber’s hat was now gone, his scarf askew. But with his face so mangled from Armie’s punches, he didn’t need a disguise.

Odds were his own mother wouldn’t recognize him right now.

His nose, crooked and covered in blood, had turned a sick shade of purple, matching the shiner on his right eye. His lips were swollen, also bloody. Part of a torn nylon stocking drooped around his neck.

Armie focused on his eyes. They were a clearer blue than his pal’s, without an ounce of conscience.

“Armie, please.” Merissa struggled. “Don’t do this!”

With one hand Armie kept her locked behind him. He said nothing. What was there to say?

He’d die before he let her be shot.

The second man pulled at his friend’s coat, urging him to flee while they still could. “I hear sirens! We have to go.”

And still the bastard kept that gun aimed, his indecision thick in the air.

Holding his ground, never breaking eye contact, Armie calmed his breathing and waited to see the verdict.