Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

like we’re going to have two treats instead of just the one.” Blue’s snarling words were designed to intimidate me into cooperation.

Fear of physical pain made most female crime victims compliant.

This was obviously not his first rodeo. He knew how to intimidate and control.

Blue’s eyes slid to Lizard. “Get off the damned ground,” he spat.

Benji had made it into the car; I could hear the engine turn over.

The screech of tires assaulted the air with its nerve-torturing cacophony. As Benji’s too heavy foot pressed the gas, the balding tires finally found their grip on the black top.

The danger quotient just went up exponentially.

The bad guys’ car rocketing toward us, I took advantage of Blue’s inattention.

He still hadn’t figured out that I was a trained adversary. And I knew now that he was the kingpin, the others his lackeys. Slice the head off the king, and the others would flail.

I spun like a dancer to cover the space between us.

It was a martial arts move that I loved because it wasn’t at all the norm one saw in a street brawl. It would confuse his brain.

I needed every advantage I could get.

Distant sirens told me that I’d have help soon. Would it be soon enough?

In a fight, a lot of harm could fall in a very short time frame.

My calculations didn’t slow me. They were part of my training. A fight wasn’t physical moves by themselves. It was a chess match. It was about keeping a cool head in a heated exchange.

The opponent with ice in their veins conquered the hot head.

Still, I had no illusions. My success wasn’t a given.

This was still a three against one fight. And size and number matter.

You’re not immortal, I reminded myself. Mostly, that was Spyder in my ear, teaching me to be humble and strategic, or my ego might just put me into a scenario that I couldn’t control.

On my last spin, I balled my fist, pulling my hand to my shoulder and exposing the boney cudgel of my elbow, the hardest part of the body.

Elbow strikes were my favorite strikes. I could do a lot of damage to my opponent with little danger to myself.

I clipped across his chin.

The force twisted his head to the full extent his neck would allow, like an owl with bulging surprised eyes.

His reaction was more information. He should have spun with the strike to sap the blow of its power.

Now perfectly positioned, my fist against my shoulder, I flung my arm outward, my knuckles catching his temple in a back fist that pitched his head in the other direction, throwing him off balance.

“Fuck you, bitch.” I heard Lizard off to my right. Still crawling on the ground, he was part of my awareness, but he wasn’t my focus.

Blue chambered a punch, stepping into it to give his arm the power of major muscle groups. He swung at me. Street brawler with experience. That twist to the shoulder gave him a longer reach and used his back muscles and glutes.

I was a much smaller, much lighter adversary.

And it occurred to me, this was no longer about trapping two women and putting them in his car to take us off to do what they willed. Blue now had to save face in front of his posse.

That might make him reckless, throwing haymakers instead of jabs and hooks.

I was able to duck under the next poorly executed punch.

That kind of swing happened when you didn’t have a plan.

As I pressed up from the squat, I blocked his arm, making sure he couldn’t grab at me. My ponytail, which made me look younger for this assignment, was a fighting liability—nothing I could do about it now.

Using my own momentum as I rose to my full height, I tipped to the side, my weight on my stability leg, my right leg pulled to my chest. Instantly, I extended my round house, aiming the top of my foot to line up just under his ribs. If I were lucky, I’d kick the wind out of him, leaving his diaphragm convulsing so he couldn’t inhale.

The trick was to get my foot out of the way before he could grab my leg and drop me to the ground.

Oof. He coughed and wretched as I spun again outside of his reach.

From my peripheral vision, I saw the waitress scrambling to her feet.

Still, she hugged the garbage bags to her like shields.

Lizard was up on all fours, making strained moans.

I took the opportunity to kick him in the gut. He arched up like a cat then vomited.

When I stepped down and swung back to find Blue, there was his fist crashing into my cheekbone. But unlike Blue, I didn’t just let a punch land, or it would have knocked me out cold.

Spinning. Spinning.

Where were the police?

Blue grabbed my shirt and dragged me into a bear hug, lifting my feet from the ground.

His hands were meaty and powerful, the kind of hands that built strength through use.

I was mighty protective of my head. I’d had two major head traumas in succession, and unless I wanted to be spoon-fed from a wheelchair, I needed to protect my brain at all costs.

I couldn’t grapple with this guy. He stood almost as tall as Striker did.

I grabbed his pinky fingers and bent them backward as I dropped my chin to my chest, then flung my head back, breaking his nose.

That level of pain surprises the nervous system and freaks it out. For a split second, his power grid was knocked offline.

He dropped me.

I scooped my foot behind him, placing the sole of my tennis shoe on his calf as I rose up to stand on his leg, driving his