Chapter 25 Connor #2
His fist found Sunan’s liver with precision.
Sunan’s eyes went wide and his body folded involuntarily.
Connor’s elbow followed, crashing into the man’s temple, sending Sunan spinning.
Before he could recover, Connor’s knee drove into his spine, knocking him to the ground in a strike that might have paralyzed a normal man.
But Sunan was not normal. He rolled with the impact and came up swinging, desperation replacing calculation.
They traded blows, then grappled, gladiatorlike, in the center of the circle. No more dancing, no more technique. Just two men trying to break each other before they themselves shattered.
Connor’s nose broke under Sunan’s palm in a white-hot eruption of pain. He didn’t stop, though, and Sunan’s knee buckled under his kick.
They were destroying each other piece by piece, inch by inch. The largely male crowd roared with excitement as two of the Yām Kh?mk?n’s greatest warriors fought like cornered tigers.
The torches guttered in a gust of night wind as Connor and Sunan pummeled on, too stubborn to fall, too proud to yield, better matched than either could have believed.
Through the blood and pain, Connor felt Sophie’s presence at the periphery, a heartbeat of hope and support.
Still watching. Still there. A witness to his triumph or his end.
I will prevail. For the future of the Yām Kh?mk?n. For the memory of what we were, what we could be again.
I will win.
* * *
The torchlight turned the ancient stones of the combat circle into pools of gold and shadow. Connor tasted copper in his mouth, felt the warm trickle of blood from his split lip mixing with sweat. His ribs screamed with each breath—at least two cracked, maybe three. But he was still standing.
Sunan wasn’t.
The younger man knelt in the dirt, one hand pressed to his side where Connor’s knee had found its mark. The arrogance that had carried him through the first rounds of combat had evaporated like morning mist. Now there was only pain and the dawning realization of defeat.
Connor’s bare feet found their stance in the packed earth, feeling every grain of sand, every small stone.
The night air was thick with torch smoke and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
Around them, the brotherhood watched in silence—some his men, some Sunan’s, all bound by the ancient laws that governed this moment.
His body catalogued its damage: the gash above his left eye that kept trying to blind him, the fire in his ribs, the deep bruise spreading across his right thigh. Sunan had been fast, trained in modern brutality. But Connor had survived worse. Had endured when others would have fallen.
“Master,” his second called from outside the circle, his voice carefully neutral.
“I will bring the sword.” Connor inclined his head, keeping Sunan in his peripheral vision.
His man approached with the blade—not the ceremonial katana, but the practical dao that had served the brotherhood for generations.
Its weight was familiar in his palm, the leather grip worn smooth by countless hands.
The steel sang softly as he raised it, catching the torchlight. Around him, the assembled warriors shifted, recognizing the moment. This was the way. Challenge issued, combat joined, victory claimed. And now, a final duty.
Sunan’s eyes met his. The younger man’s jaw worked, but no words came. Perhaps searching for some final insult, some last defiance. But there was nothing left. They both knew how this ended.
Connor adjusted his grip, the blade’s balance perfect. One clean strike. Honor satisfied, order restored. The brotherhood would survive another generation.
“Make it quick,” Sunan said, his voice conversational.
Connor took the couple of steps needed to reach his adversary, the sword raised overhead.
Sunan bent his head, baring his neck—and Connor swung, putting weight and power into it. A clean stroke.
The head rolled free. Blood pumped.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—not in the circle, but beyond. High near the trees where the observation towers pierced the canopy.
His instincts, honed by years of survival, prickled.
Someone, or something, was coming their way. Someone who didn’t belong.
He knew it with the same certainty he knew his own heartbeat.
Connor turned toward the darkness where he felt Sophie’s presence, the heavy sword’s tip dropping to hit the earth.
He searched the shadows for her, this woman who’d taught him there was so much more to life than loneliness and the pursuit of justice.
She’d shown him what it meant to love, to laugh and play, to look forward to tomorrow.
But it was too dark to see Sophie; the tower was unlit so it wouldn’t be a target. He couldn’t see her.
The sound came from nowhere and everywhere at once. A high whine that didn’t belong in the jungle night. Not insects, not night birds. Mechanical. Modern.
Drones.
“Run!” Connor roared, but his voice was swallowed by the scream of the first missile.
The eastern wall exploded in a flower of orange flame. The shock wave hit him like a giant’s fist, lifting him off his feet. He had a moment of weightlessness, almost peaceful, before the world turned to chaos.
Stone shrapnel whistled past his head. Heat seared his skin. He hit the ground hard, the sword spinning from his grip. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard screams, shouts, the crash of ancient masonry surrendering to modern warfare.
He tried to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey. Blood ran into his eyes from the gash on his scalp. Men were trying to crawl away, the faction's black uniforms scattering like roaches from light.
The second missile shrieked down.
Connor saw it coming toward him, a bright star falling from the heavens. Time dilated, stretched like taffy.
He thought of Sophie in the vantage point of the tower outside the fortress walls. Watching this. Watching him die.
In that instant, suspended between life and death, Connor saw it all with perfect clarity: the CIA was making a big move. Taking out all the players at once.
There was no time for rage. No time for anything but the strange peace that came with understanding. He’d lived by the sword and expected to die by it.
That the sword turned out to be a Hellfire missile changed nothing.
He shut his eyes. Saw her face.
I'm sorry. For everything we couldn’t be. I love you.
The missile struck the center of the combat circle.
The world went white, then—nothing.