My husband’s family never knew I had once been an MMA champion. At my mother-in-law’s BBQ, my brother-in-law poured beer over my head. My husband stood up and told him to apologize to me. He laughed, shoved my husband, then punched him in the mouth. He told me to sit down because it didn’t concern me. Then he grabbed my wrist... and that’s when my sister-in-law started screaming.

"You haven't lost a step, little bird," Marco snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Still the fastest hands in the underground. But lead doesn't care about footwork."

"Neither does a .45 hollow point," Ryan’s voice echoed calmly from the shadows.

Marco froze.

Ryan stepped out from behind the heavy steel support pillar, holding the Kimber .45 in a two-handed combat grip, the sights aligned perfectly with the back of Marco's skull.

"Drop it," Ryan commanded. His voice wasn't shaking. It was chillingly devoid of fear. "Drop the weapon, or I paint this van with your brain matter."

Marco chuckled, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Look at that. The suburban accountant found his spine. You think you've got the stones to pull that trigger, boy?"

"Try him," I whispered, taking a half-step forward, shifting into a southpaw fighting stance. "He spent three years watching me spar. He knows exactly where the spine meets the base of the skull."

Marco’s eyes darted between Ryan and me. He knew he was outflanked. With a muttered curse, he unclipped the sling and let the submachine gun drop to the wet floor.

"Smart," I said.

Before the gun even settled on the concrete, Marco lunged.

He didn't pull another weapon; he relied on brute, heavyweight mass. He drove forward with a vicious right cross aimed at my jaw. I slipped to the outside, feeling the wind of his knuckle graze my ear, and countered with an elbow strike that sliced through his left eyebrow.

Blood blinded his left eye, but Marco was an old brawler. He ignored the blood, throwing a devastating knee toward my midsection. I caught the knee with crossed palms, redirected his momentum, and swept his planted leg with a brutal low kick.

Marco crashed to the floor, but rolled instantly, reaching for a combat blade tucked into his combat boot.

He slashed upward. The steel blade sliced through the sleeve of my leather jacket, opening a shallow red line along my forearm.

The sting of the cut didn't slow me down. It flipped the final switch in my brain.

I caught his blade-wrist with a two-on-one Russian tie, stepped my hips tight against his shoulder, and applied maximum torque. *Snap.* The radius bone gave way. The knife clattered harmlessly into a grease puddle.

Without pausing, I mounted his chest, drove my forearm across his throat, and pinned his head against the concrete. My other fist hovered three inches above his shattered nose, trembling with pure, lethal restraint.

"Who told you where to find me?" I demanded, pressing my forearm deeper into his windpipe.