bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy, looping
overhand right, aiming to end it in three seconds.
Big Eli didn't slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He
simply hunched his massive shoulders and tucked his chin
—a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent’s fist crashed into
Big Eli’s forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human
skull.
A sickening crack echoed. Trent winced, stumbling back a
half-step, shaking his right hand. He had aimed for the jaw
and hit solid bone. Big Eli felt a flash of white light behind
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Chapter 7
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his eyes, followed by a wave of nausea. It hurt. He was
sixty-four years old. He tasted the sharp tang of blood
where he had bitten the inside of his cheek.
"Stay small," a cold, dead voice whispered in his
mind. The voice from the jungle.
"Let him work. Watch his hips."
Angered by his own mistake, Trent unleashed a flurry. A
jab snapped Big Eli’s head back. A vicious low kick
slammed into his left thigh. The sound of flesh on flesh
made a woman in the front row gasp. Big Eli stumbled, his
leg buckling slightly.
"Come on, old man," Trent spat, smelling blood. He threw a
high roundhouse kick, aiming for Big Eli’s temple.
Big Eli’s reaction was entirely devoid of grace. It was ugly,
born of survival rather than sport. He didn't try to block
the kick; he stepped into it. He lunged forward, closing the
space before the leg could generate full momentum. Trent’s
shin slapped harmlessly against Big Eli’s thick ribs.
With Trent balanced on one leg, Big Eli simply leaned his
heavy weight forward and shoved. It was a clumsy, heavy
push. Trent crashed backward onto the foam mats, his
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Chapter 8
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breath leaving him in a loud oof. The crowd fell dead
silent.
The jukebox in the corner seemed to suddenly blare
louder, a tinny country song mocking the heavy
tension. Trent scrambled to his feet, his face flushing
crimson. The smirk was completely gone, replaced by a
tight, furious grimace.