Page 102 of Four Cards Exposed

James jumped back, overconfident, and tripped over an exposed root that’d been there the entire time.

By the time he found his feet again, the knife had found its way into his arm. He felt every inch of the blade as it slashed him from elbow to wrist—thankfully on the outside of his arm, not hitting any of the large muscle groups he needed for his arm to work.

James gasped, then grit his teeth, riding through the pain.

As his opponent came in for another slash, James dropped in a solar plexus strike under his eye line, landing his blow right between and below the man’s nipples. He led with his left hand, transferring all his body weight through, as if he intended to push through to the man’s spine.

James felt the man’s diaphragm spasm. The next instant, the fighter doubled over and onto the floor, stunned, breathless, and barely conscious.

It doesn’t matter how strong you are, if you can’t breathe, you’re done for.

James followed with an elbow to the side of the head, and the man dropped.

James stepped over him and grabbed the knife. He turned around to face the crowd, which had suddenly gone completely silent, letting the sounds of the jungle through.

“Drop the knife, James,” Guerrero said. His voice, though quiet, resonated with unexpected authority.

Hell would have to freeze over before that happened.

James snarled and tightened his hold on his knife, shaking his head forcefully to clear the cobwebs, replacing the fuzziness with a burst of agony so bright it left him momentarily clear-headed.

The tension in the air grew and grew until James realized there was only one possible thing to do with the knife.

Not trusting the grip in his right hand, he held the knife loosely in his left, balancing the handle between his index finger and thumb. During his next exhale, he brought his hand out and up in a quick, fluid motion. It was an instinctive throw, and it found its target.

Mendoza collapsed to his knees, the knife embedded deeply in his neck, just about even with his Adam’s apple. The entire courtyard watched, transfixed, as Mendoza pulled the knife out. Dark, red blood gushed out. Pints and pints of it, it seemed, staining the ground beneath them crimson.

In a matter of seconds, Mendoza’s skin took on the pallor of death—a green, pasty sheen from which there was no way back. Moments later he fell onto his back, dead in a puddle of his own blood.

Nobody moved to help him.

Not that there’s anything anybody could have done.

It was a quick, quiet death.

Better than he deserved.

James tasted metal in his mouth. Every breath he took was agony. Blood from his knife wound dripped down his hand and onto the ground, staining the earth. He widened his stance, willing his legs to hold him, even as everything went blurry around the edges.

He wished he could lie down, but he knew he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Who’s next?” he snarled, opening his arms wide.

There was complete silence in the courtyard.

Eventually, a man moved forward.

Guerrero.

“We should kill you,” he said, his dark eyes pitiless.

“You might have killed me already,” James said. He was pretty sure one of his broken ribs had pierced his lung. His arm throbbed. In this heat, he knew it wouldn’t be long before infection set in. “But she has nothing to do with this.”

James was taking a chance here. He knew Guerrero had once wanted to protect Susan. He just didn’t know how far that protection would still extend, now that he knew Susan had been impersonating a dead woman all along.

Guerrero cocked his head, an expression that said Susan’s share of blame was debatable.

“We didn’t hurt Milena,” Susan said softly. “She died of a drug overdose, just a few days before you got out of prison. Please. Let us go. We will forget where this place is. It’s not our problem.”