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