By sheer force of will, I manage to roll onto my back out of the way from one of his kicks. It throws him off-balance, but he only chuckles and regards me from where he stands.
“Tough luck, Zakrevsky.” Martin wipes his mouth and sniffs. “I’ll tell Clara you said hi.”
He moves to step over me.
Big mistake.
It’s all I need to grab his ankle, twist his leg into my arms, and yank him to the ground with every ounce of strength I can muster. The sound of his head cracking on the carpet is beautiful; the fact that he goes limp almost instantly is a huge relief.
I pull myself to my feet and he groans. In one sense, it’s a pity he’s not dead yet. In another, it means I get to do this.
I kick him a few times just to make us even. Pain shoots through my side when I do, but it’s nothing compared
