Free Underground Warrior by Evelyn Vaughn

out of people. People who asked for it, anyway. He’d grown up big for his age, the kid that other boys targeted to prove their toughness. Having no dad in the picture hadn’t helped.
    Learning to fight sure had.
    Even his freshman year of high school, before Judge LaSalle had pulled up outside his ma’s double-wide in his fine town car to change their lives, Trace had done well on the school wrestling team. When most of the athletics at his new, college prep school turned out to be posh, stuck-up crap like golf and dressage and sculling, Trace had found a home with wrestling, boxing and martial arts. Maybe he hadn’t had the education or the temperament for LaSalle’s upper-crust world. Hell, he’d felt like an oversize, brain-damaged hick most of the time until Smith, Mitch and Quinn befriended him—and sometimes even after that. But he could always channel his frustrations into good, honest violence.
    Nothing but his body and endurance and willpower versus another man’s body and endurance and willpower. Simple as that.
    And, in the case of illegal, NHB fighting? Nowadays he could make a hefty wad of cash, too. That’s because no-holds-barred fights were being driven deeper and deeper underground, until even the states that allowed them—like Texas—ended up enforcing more and more rules, barring holds beyond the original three taboos of groin strikes, bites and eye-gouging. That made them holds-barred fights, and nowhere near as fun for the cheering, hooting crowds. People came to NHB fights for “the damage.”
    Whether on the giving or receiving end, so did fighters like Trace.
    His first opponent in the warehouse that night was a Latino named Emilio, smaller than him in weight and height. That could have made Trace feel like a big bully, except that Emilio was a freakin’ kickboxer, and a damned fast one at that. Trace had once seen a kickboxer take down a sumo wrestler in a matter of seconds. None of his size or strength was worth squat if he couldn’t get close enough to the guy to grab him.
    The crowd cheered and hooted, but the fighters only saw each other. They circled the fenced, octagonal cage, Emilio flying at Trace feetfirst, Trace doing his damnedest to catch one of the guy’s feet in midair. So far, Emilio had kicked him in the ribs, grazed his freakin’ forehead and slammed into his thigh—a few inches lower, and Trace wouldn’t have a working knee. Trace had caught one of Emilio’s kicks, but not good enough to hold on. When he compromised by throwing the guy, his opponent rolled out of the way before Trace could pin him against the chain link. Barefooted, bare-knuckled—bare everything except for what their shorts covered—the two men circled. Emilio favored his left shoulder, where Trace had thrown him. Trace favored his right leg. Both grinned at each other like bloodthirsty animals, glad for the chance to see just what they were made of.
    For the weirdest moment, Trace had a non-memory of doing the same thing with large, valuable swords. Somewhere in the countryside, weighted by leather armor and heavy helmets…
    He snapped back fast enough when Emilio came at him with another flurry of murderous kicks. Instead of dancing back again, Trace dodged around them and tackled his opponent, hard, to the floor. A quick tightening of his hold, and yeah—the kickboxer, deadly legs trapped beneath their combined weight, was his.
    “Submit!” Trace snarled, and started walloping the guy. Hell, it was disrespectful, not just to the crowd but to his opponent and to himself, to do anything but beat the crap out of him. Emilio could stop it anytime. He could tap out. Everyone tapped out eventually.
    Emilio curled protectively into himself, snarling back something in Spanish.
    Trace hit him again, a kidney shot. Nothing but a grunt. Again. Both their bodies lurched at the force of the blows. The crowd seemed frenzied. Emilio just laughed through his own pain, so Trace hit him again—
    Which is