Free Terror Stash by Tracy Cooper-Posey Page B

gripped in his fist to meet the two who had leapt at his back while he was picking it up. Their knives were up high and they fell upon Rawn with ululating cries.
    Instead of backing away from their leap, Rawn dropped to one knee. It was totally unexpected and their momentum sent them past him, unable to adjust in mid-rush. Rawn’s hand whipped around in a flat circle, backwards, to thrust the knife deep into the side of the man on his right. The force of his thrust turned Rawn around and the torque brought him to his feet again.
    He was moving so fast that by the time he’d pulled the knife from the first, the second man had barely brought himself to a stop after his abortive leap. As he turned to rush back at Rawn, Rawn had already taken a big stride forward and was right there . The man literally ran onto the knife in Rawn’s hands, his eyes opening wide in almost comedic shock.
    Rawn pushed at the man’s shoulder and he fell like a tree. Montana could feel the vibrations from his fall through her feet.
    Rawn turned to face the last of the five men, who was closest to the bar. His knife was red with blood.
    So far, only five seconds had passed since Rawn had ordered his beer to go. No one except Rawn and the men with the knives had moved.
    The fifth man looked uncertain. He was glancing around the bar. Looking for Rabbit? If Rabbit had hired them, then Montana didn’t blame him for his doubt. Five against one—they would have been anticipating easy money, not this rout.
    The fifth man called out to one of the groups huddled in the corner, a group of three men. Montana translated it even as her stunned mind identified the Arabic. We weren’t told he was a fighter! Command me! Tell me what I must do now!
    Two of the men in the corner looked at each other, clearly puzzled. The third remained quite still, quite silent. He was another swarthy man, but clean-shaven. He showed no emotion whatsoever.
    Montana knew him. Oh, she had never met him before, but she knew his face. It was familiar to her and later she would track that familiarity down to its source.
    Rawn beckoned the fifth man to him, but the man curled up his lip and spat on the ground instead.
    So Rawn threw the bloodied knife away, spread his hands to show he was unarmed and beckoned again. The man smiled. Much better terms, apparently. He started to circle Rawn and Montana heard the faint sound of approaching sirens. The cops, as promised. They would arrest all the fighters, including Rawn, who was the victim here.
    “Rawn,” she said sharply, in warning, before she even realized she was about to speak.
    He glanced at her and the fifth man took the opening and leapt at him.
    Rawn took a casual step to the side as the man rushed past him. It almost looked rehearsed. He spun on one heel, his arm snaking around the man’s neck, the other pushing up against his ear. He took a deep breath and flexed his arms in a sharp, hard movement. There was a muffled, moist crunch. Rawn let him go and the man slid tiredly down to the soil.
    “Thanks,” Rawn told her. Montana realized that he had glanced at her for the same reason he’d asked the manager for a beer—to bring the man closer.
    She looked around for their leader, the man she knew. He’d disappeared.
    She hurried to Rawn, troubled. “Get the hell out of here. You’ve killed five men. They’re not Australians, but—”
    “They’re from the Middle East,” he said, peeling off his tee-shirt and dabbing it at the knife wound on his forearm. “That was Arabic he spoke.”
    The tee-shirt had hidden the true extent of his muscles. There was very little fat there...just dips and smooth mounds of sun-bronzed flesh. She realized abruptly that she was inhaling his scent, which was heady and male. Her heart thundering again, Montana focused on a scar on his torso, right over his heart.
    Vinnie. That’s where Vinnie was shot. The snapshot memory inserted itself in her mind, unbidden. She had turned around to coax