Free Terror Stash by Tracy Cooper-Posey Page A

She felt Rawn lift her via the grip on her crotch and shoulder. The speed of the lift told her of the incredible power behind it. She was tossed over his shoulder, over the head of one of the five men surrounding them, to fall into the willing, waiting arms of a dozen people in the crowd.
    Tossed high. Into waiting hands.
    She had been here before. The moment zinged back into her mind, alive and glowing with immediacy, like it was happening all over again.
    “You live, Montana. Live!” Vinnie’s voice, sharp, commanding.
    She reached back for him just as the hands grabbed her, pulled her over the fence. “Daddy!”
    Montana was not a lightweight. She was five foot eight and had spent her adult life in athletic pursuits. She braced herself in mid-air, for despite the dozen waiting hands, she landed hard in the dirt and went sprawling, bringing bodies down with her.
    But she was out of danger and no one was badly hurt. Not yet.
    She scrambled to her feet, spinning around. The circle that had surrounded them had broken up. People were scattering and leaving. Not many of them were stupid enough to hang around to see how a knife fight came out. The stakes, even for a bystander, were too high.
    Yet there were two or three people crowded into each of the corners, too fascinated to let good sense rule.
    She could see the manager behind the bar, speaking into the phone. He would be calling the cops.
    Montana realized she couldn’t bring herself to leave, either. Stupid, stupid, stupid . Professionally, she couldn’t afford to be involved in a situation like this. She railed at herself, swore at herself, pummeled her conscience to try and make herself leave, but her feet stayed still.
    In her mind, again, she heard Vinnie’s voice as she was tossed through the air. Live, Montana !
    Rawn had moved away from the table, bringing the circle of men with him like a planet moves its satellites. Rabbit had bolted and left his minions to finish Rawn off.
    It was already down to four men. While Montana had been flying through the air and picking herself up, Rawn had already dealt with the first one, who lay very still beneath the table she had been sitting at.
    There was a very fine slash across Rawn’s forearm, which oozed pearls of blood. Otherwise, he was untouched.
    “The cops are on their way!” the manager called out, leaning over the bar. If he thought the warning would be enough to end the fight and clear his bar, he was wrong. The four men around Rawn didn’t give any reaction at all. They might have been deaf.
    Rawn just smiled a little. “Oh, I’ll be finished long before then.” He glanced at the manager. “I’ll have a beer to go, though—would you mind knocking the cap off a stubby for me?”
    The man furthest from the bar took advantage of Rawn’s momentary inattention. He surged forward, knife swinging in a long pendulum arc. He was going to drive the point up into Rawn’s guts, but when he reached Rawn, almost magically the man melted away and around him, in a graceful spin that turned his back to the knife-wielder.
    Rawn gripped his own wrist with his left hand and drove his right elbow hard into the man’s exposed solar plexus. Already falling forward, the man arched in a tight bow, throwing his head back. Rawn swung the same elbow around in a circle so fast Montana could hear the wind whistling from its speed. He pistoned the elbow down into the man’s throat, his left hand still clenched around his fist for extra power.
    The man slammed into the ground, his strings cut. He clutched at his throat, making gurgling and bubbling sounds, his heels pummeling the sand in pain and panic.
    Rawn’s call to the manager for a drink had been a feint, designed to draw the men into his reach. He’d been ready for them to charge.
    Rawn took a stride backwards, slid the toe of his boot under the gleaming knife lying in the dirt and flicked it up into the air. He slapped his hand down on the hilt and spun with the knife