Chapter 9 - Blood on the Sawdust
Marcus closed the ten-yard distance before the guard could fully unholster his sidearm. He drove his forehead straight into the man's nose with a sickening crunch, grabbing the wrist holding the weapon and twisting it viciously downward until the gun dropped uselessly into the dirt.
The second guard lunged from the side, swinging a collapsible baton toward Marcus’s ribs. The blow landed with a dull thud, driving the wind from Marcus’s lungs, but rage numbed the pain. Marcus caught the guard’s arm on the backswing, pivoted hard, and executed a hip throw that slammed the two-hundred-pound guard spine-first onto the steel ramp of the trailer.
Donald didn't run. He drew a polished silver hunting knife from his boot sheath, his posture shifting into the practiced stance of a seasoned brawler. Despite his age, his muscular frame carried deadly weight.
""You think you’re the only man who knows how to fight for what's his, Marcus?"" Donald hissed, slashing the blade horizontally.
The blade caught Marcus’s forearm, opening a shallow, stinging wound that dripped crimson onto the raked footing. Marcus dodged the return stroke, his boots kicking a shower of wet dirt directly into Donald’s eyes.
Donald recoiled, his vision blinded for a split second. Marcus capitalized immediately, driving a brutal right hook into the elder man's jaw, followed by an elbow strike to his sternum. Donald stumbled backward, crashing against the trailer's wooden side panels with a violent groan.
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Inside the trailer, Black Sovereign panicked at the noise. The thousand-pound stallion reared up, kicking wildly against the reinforced wooden dividers. The trailer shook violently on its axles, the hinges of the upper partition beginning to give way under the beast's immense power.
Donald fell to his knees, spitting blood, yet his hand still gripped the hilt of his knife. He lunged wildly from the ground, aiming straight for Marcus’s throat.
