Justice for Mary (Special Forces: Operation Alpha) (Hellforce Security: Alpha Team Book 1) by Rayne Lewis & Operation Alpha

Author:Rayne Lewis & Operation Alpha [Lewis, Rayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aces Press, LLC
Published: 2021-05-10T16:00:00+00:00

While the guys up front were finding out how Trent staged the robbery to get money for drugs, and to pay off a scheme he’d been skimming from the top, King was in the back fighting to hold onto life.

After Trent lifted himself from the floor, shaking his arms out, trying to get circulation back into them, King squared off, readying himself for the shit stain to make a move.

It was actually quite comical, King’s six-foot-two, the two-hundred-forty-pound muscled mass frame was mammoth compared to Trent’s slender five-ten, one-hundred-seventy-five-pound smooth-muscled body. It was a joke he would even attempt to fight his way out of going to the police. If this thirty-two-year-old punk could get any licks in and take King down, it would have to be by murder. No way in hell was this thug going to take down a skilled, trained, former Delta operator. King may be thirty-eight, but he was a damn good hand-to-hand fighter. Actually, it was his forte.

Trent may play soldier boy on his Xbox gaming console, talking shit with his fellow gamers and wannabe warriors over headsets they thought were real comms, but he had none of the attributes of an actual soldier. King didn’t even think he could PT him without killing him halfway through the morning five-mile run.

King knew he’d have him talking by the end of this ridiculous circus act, in which they were center ring and would soon have the names of the others involved. By daybreak, these fuckwads would be behind bars, and he would be in bed with Mary.

The image had him off-guard, and he wasn’t quite ready when Trent threw the first punch, trying to land a jab with his left hand, followed with a dominant right hook, and landing it with all his might and force behind it.

It was child’s play for King, who sheltered up, raising his left hand to protect his face, then pulled back for the jab, and shelled up for the body shot that followed. It was a glancing blow across his abdomen, and Trent’s fists were like a toddler’s with barely any weight behind them. It felt more like a weak pummeling than a fierce fighting blow.

King played defense, being more amused than going into survival mode, which was standard MO when engaged in hand-to-hand combat in the field.

Next came the pathetic attempt of an untrained fighter, or “movie fighters” as the team called them. Big, dramatic, drawn-out moves an opponent could see coming from a mile away. Like when a Western cowboy gets shot in the stomach and flies twenty feet back through the plate-glass window of the Ol’ Town Saloon. Yup, this was what King was up against. If real-life slow-mo was possible, this would be Trent’s Oscar-winning moment.

King braced as Trent bull-rushed him, head down, charging at him, as if King were a matador waving a red cape. Barreling into King's center and grabbing him around the waist in an attempt to knock him off his feet and onto the floor was an ill-fated attempt with lackluster flare.

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