Caleb moved with the speed of a blink. He rolled to his back, causing Brandon-Lee to overbalance and fall to the side. He caught himself with his hands, but it was the half-second Caleb needed to find his feet. He dipped to a low crouch, the fighter’s stance that he’d practiced hundreds of times. Part Tai Chi, and part shit-his-mom-probably-made-up, the stance gave the best balance while confusing adversaries who had never studied fighting.

Caleb knew that Brandon-Lee would make the first move because he was pissed that he’d screwed up. The redneck did not disappoint. He launched himself at Caleb from just a few feet away. He was going for a football tackle, but he came in too high.

Caleb sidestepped the rush and was able to plant an elbow into the back of Brandon-Lee’s neck as he passed. He didn’t have a lot on it, but he knew it hurt.

Brandon-Lee kept his balance and spun around for more. This time, he had a knife in his hand, the blade protruding from the pinky side of his fist.

My knife! In all the shit when Grubbs took him prisoner, they’d taken his rifle, but they’d never taken the folder he kept clipped to the pocket of his jeans. Probably because it was covered by the tail of his jacket.

When Caleb opened his own blade with a flourish, Brandon-Lee’s eyes showed fear for the first time. Caleb held his blade the way they’re supposed to be held, with the blade extending from the thumb side, edge facing forward.

“Papa!” Brandon-Lee yelled. He lunged at Caleb, his blade up high, intending to land a massive downward strike.

The training all came back. Caleb stepped into the attack and slashed the tendons in Brandon-Lee’s wrist, destroying his ability to hold the knife.

“Shit! Papa!”

Caleb shifted his stance and slashed at Brandon-Lee’s face. A crimson stripe opened across the bridge of his nose. When Brandon-Lee brought his hands to his face, that was Caleb’s opening. He drove the blade hilt deep into Brandon-Lee’s stomach.

Brandon-Lee shrieked in agony. It was the sound of a terrified, wounded animal. Brandon-Lee shifted his hands to surround Caleb’s on the handle of the blade, trying to undo the damage that could never be undone. His legs were unsteady, though. He’d begun to wobble.

When Caleb shifted again and drove his knee into the end of the pommel, the blade sank another two inches, and Brandon-Lee collapsed. He didn’t move.

“Brandon-Lee!” a voice called. “Where are you, son?”

The fight was over, but the chase was on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

VICTORIA UNDERSTOOD HOW LUKE HAD LOST TRACK OF TIME AND distance. Even in the El Camino, even with an odometer, she couldn’t have guessed, either. She damn near jumped out of her seat when Luke pounded on the roof of the truck’s cab.