Ángel dove across the island, gliding on his substantial belly, soaring off the end at Evan, the butt of the shotgun jabbing at Evan’s face. Evan barely had time to get his legs up. His boots embedded themselves in Ángel’s stomach, and he went with the momentum, rotating into a backward somersault and catapulting Ángel off.

The guard smashed through the swinging doors into the ballroom.

Evan scrambled up and charged after him, kicking through the doors. The right one slammed into Ángel just as he got a hand on the shotgun. He rolled with the blow, coming onto his hands and knees as the shotgun skittered out of reach across the hardwood floor. He cast a longing glance after it, then rose to focus on Evan.

They circled each other. Ángel’s foot position was solid, his base low. He kept his hands raised in a fighting position, palms turned in, unclenched, floating up around his face. A real fighter.

His attack options, however, were limited, since Evan had to be taken alive.

Evan had no such limitations.

Ángel led with a cross. Evan bladed his body, coming over the incoming arm with a bil jee finger jab to the eye. He deflected the punch, his firmed middle finger simultaneously jellying the guard’s right eye.

Ángel grunted—more shock than pain—and reeled back, one hand rising to the socket. Evan pressed his advantage, driving forward with a punch, but the injured man proved surprisingly agile. He threw a parry into Evan’s triceps, knocking him off balance, then slammed a palm heel to the outside of Evan’s jaw. He let his hand slide past Evan’s chin after the impact, stepping behind him and locking him in a sleeper choke.

The flurry was so quick that Evan barely registered the blur of Ángel’s hands. There was no time to process it now; his carotid was cinched, and he was losing blood to the head. His canted face was angled at the chandelier overhead, resplendent enough to rival the one in the foyer. The dripping crystal teardrops, rainbowed with ambient light, blurred and smeared. Static dotted his vision. A few more seconds and he’d go out.

With everything he had, he stomped his heel down into Ángel’s instep, a foot destruction targeting the proximal interphalangeal joint of the first metatarsal. The force of the impact shuddered Evan’s bones right up his leg.

This one Ángel felt right away.

Gasping, he released Evan and hobbled back, his right foot bent behind him, raised gingerly off the floor. He skipped another few steps, his left leg propping him up. One hand floated before his wrecked eye. He might have been weeping. It was hard to tell. His good eye stayed locked on Evan’s hands, tracking their every movement.