DAMIEN
.
.
The air hit me, cool and damp, as I stepped out a side door, into a narrow alleyway behind the gallery.
The two men followed, their thin smiles gone, replaced by a cold look while Clever and my men fell into position, silent, ready.
This wasn’t a brawl.
This was business.
My business.
Dirty, brutal, efficient.
I moved first, a calculated strike to the gut of the scar-faced one, doubling him over with a grunt. The other came at me, fast, a knife appearing in his hand, the glint of steel in the dim light.
I blocked, sidestepped, the movements fluid, and practiced. It boiled down to knowing how to break a man with your bare hands, how to end a fight before it became a spectacle. My pride demanded it. No messy gun play on foreign soil unless absolutely necessary.
