Jack spun into his fighting stance, desperately trying to remember what Amador had taught him— Stupid! He told himself. If it isn’t in your muscle memory now, don’t even try. John Clark had taught him that in real close-quarters combat, there’s no time for thinking—only instinct, drilled into him by hours and hours of practice. Jack had that in spades. He glanced at the karambit again, trying to shut his brain off.

At least he has only one knife, he thought.

Until Cigar Man pulled out another.

Fuck. Me.

He heard Amador’s voice in his head. When faced by a man who knows how to use two knives—RUN LIKE HELL!

But Jack couldn’t run.

He still had a job to do.

Cigar Man grinned, sensing an easy kill, even if the American was five inches taller. The man slid forward on his feet, gliding like a dancer.

Jack backed up, feeling the ground with his boots, hoping not to trip over one of the three bodies he’d put on the floor—

Too late.

Jack began to tumble backward on the corpse of the first man, and Cigar saw his chance, lowering his blades and charging.

But Jack saw his chance, too, as he regained his balance. He raised the wrench behind his ear and threw it as hard as he could. The heavy chunk of steel crashed into Cigar’s chest. He oomphed a blast of smoky air, stunned, dropping his knives. Before the blades hit the ground, Jack was on him, wrapping his arms around the man’s throat. He didn’t want to kill this one—he needed answers. But the old fighter wasn’t finished. He blasted his two forearms up and between Jack’s, breaking his grip. Then Cigar Man smashed his forehead forward, catching Jack on the chin.

The head butt felt like a gunshot against Jack’s jaw, and white stars exploded in his eyes. In the hyper slo-mo of his adrenaline rush, Jack heard his wrench clatter on the concrete, and even smelled the cigar stink on the man’s breath.

Cigar Man’s head butt missed its mark. Jack was staggered, yet still in the fight.

The man lunged at him now, hands extended, reaching for Jack’s throat. But Jack seized Cigar Man’s wrists and dropped, pulling the man’s hands against his chest and rolling onto his own back, shoving his boots into the man’s crotch and thrusting his legs straight up, catapulting the man up and over until Jack let go. The weight of both their bodies and the centrifugal force launched the smaller man through the air, smashing him against the sharp steel corner of the electric lift table, snapping his spine.