Mack 'n' Me: The Wolves of Alpha 9 by C.M. Simpson (top ebook reader txt) 📕

went down on his ass, trapped between the computer console and the wall. I spun, lashing out a back kick, and found myself grabbed and hauled out of the booth before the kick could connect.

The drag became a throw and I ended up getting way too close and personal with the wall opposite.

“Ow!”

I looked up, and found Tens glaring down at me.

“Three rounds,” he snapped, and pulled me to my feet. “Now!”

Well, hot damn!

“Rohan, you’re with Mack, this afternoon.”

I glanced around, looking for Mack, and found him standing in the doorway of the booth, looking slightly bemused. He caught my glance, and shrugged, indicating I should follow Tens.

Yeah, whatever, Mack.

I looked back at where Tens was making his way across the rec room.

Might as well get it over with.

I didn’t look back, as I followed Tens out the door—and I tried to ignore the slow trickle of crew that followed. Trust them to sense a serious fight in the air. I could hear their low mutters as they walked behind us, and figured bets were already being placed and credits changing hands.

It didn’t bother me; they’d done it plenty of times before. Usually, it was on a post-mission tussle between Mack and me. And it was rare for Tens to take anything to the mats. He had other ways of imposing his will. For him to be taking these measures, meant he needed to set an example.

Well, dammit all to the Stars and back! A simple ‘no fighting near the data beasts’ would have done it.

“No, it really wouldn’t,” Tens said, but in my head where only I could hear it. “Trust me. Number of fights I would have had to break up in the rec room after that little ass dumping would have been expensive.”

Fine, whatever.

“Is that really all that’s up your britches?”

I’d asked it just as we reached the gym, and he turned his head as he went through the door.

“Hells, no, Cutter. I’ve been wanting an excuse to kick your ass for months. This was the best one I’ve had.”

Ass!

He ignored me, putting a bit of a swagger into his stride as he crossed to the mats, and then crossed over them, before turning to face me. Spreading his arms, he leant on the wall and pulled off his boots.

I walked to the edge of the mats, and stopped to pull my own footgear off before stepping onto them. By the time I was done, he was loosening up two meters in off the wall. I decided I wasn’t going to wait. I walked over, doing my own shrug and jiggle routine until I was in close enough to lash out with a snap kick.

I put a bit of a spin on it, but he laughed, stepped around it, and slammed me hard in the chest. I might have gone down like a sack, but I’d been practicing. I turned the backwards momentum into a tuck and roll and flipped back to my feet—just in time to avoid the two fist strikes coming at my torso.

Damn! He’d been watching me spar with Mack.

Time to change out the routine.

I moved from the more formal style I’d been using and into something based more on balance, grabbing one of his arms as I stepped out of the way of the blow it was supposed to deliver. It was a simple hold, and one that was never going to keep him, but it would cost him time to get out of, and give me a slight edge.

I slung a leg around behind his nearest one, and then reversed the pressure on his arm, using it as a lever to push him back. He went down, and then followed it with something similar to my own tuck and roll routine. Things got complicated after that, but I held him off for the duration of the round, and we both went momentarily to our corners.

By that stage, more of the crew had gathered. We were probably the most entertaining thing to have happened in a while, and word had gotten around. I drew first blood on the next round, splitting Tens’s lip, and snapping his head back as I slammed my other fist into his ribs. He spun out of range, and stepped in a wary circle around me.

I tried another couple of kicks, and he blocked both. It was when I stepped in close and tried to plant him on the mat that he started laughing. Well, crap.

I’d fought with him enough to know that was a bad sign.

This time, when we broke apart, I matched his wary stepping, and we circled, each trying for an advantage. When the audience started a slow clap, we both knew we were in danger of the timer being extended.

House rule: if the opponents failed to get back in the fight within fifteen seconds, the clock got extended. Clapping started at the ten second mark.

We both moved in at the same time. Him with a combination of hand and footwork that made me a little dizzy. I stopped trying to follow them, and just let my subconscious track them. Somehow it made more sense that way—especially if I let my body respond to any obvious threats. It also put me on the defensive, which I hated.

It took me a second to adjust and come back at him. Feet were one of my strengths, but he knew that, and it was obvious I couldn’t block everything if I was going to get a good hit in on my own. Fighting with Mack had made me wary of getting in close.

Mack had height, weight and reach on me—and the man hit like a heavy freighter. Tens fought lighter, darting in to land a few solid shots, and then coming back out, wearing his opponent down while trying to take as little damage as he could.

I guess he’d fought a lot with Mack, too, because those were the tactics I used. There weren’t many others who could match