Blood Score Read Free Page B

bleachers, Cronan balled his fist. He landed a few choice blows and punched Max in the gut. Spittle squirted from the man’s lips, followed by a chaser of his foul breath. With Max doubled over, Cronan dropped to a knee and delivered the kill shot—a swift knuckle grinder to the nuts.
    “Ohh!” The men in the crowd grimaced and let out a collective groan.
    Max’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he hit the canvas. He writhed and moaned in pure agony with his hands between his legs.
    Even Cronan winced.
    The referee jumped between them and waved his arms, counting down the seconds when the fight would officially end. The crowd chimed in, but Cronan knew from experience that Chainsaw Max wouldn’t make the count. The bastard had taken the same cheap shot with him last year. Cronan had bided his time and waited for the right moment to finally return the favor.
    The bell rang, and the fight ended.
    Cronan stared down at his squirming opponent as he sucked in smoky air and felt the sweat trail down his body. Most people might expect him to feel a pang of guilt or question his sense of fair play, especially considering what he did for a living. Being a homicide cop for the Chicago PD had taught him to adapt, improvise, and get results.
    If that made him messed up, so be it.
    ***
    “Winner! Cronan, the barbarian!”
    The ring announcer proclaimed him the winner of the bout over a mic and held up Cronan’s arm, amidst the outcry of catcalls coming from the drunks who’d bet against him. Outside the cage, he grabbed a towel with his chest heaving and his muscles burning. As he wiped the sweat and blood off his face, he heard a familiar sound that stood out from the din of the crowd.
    A woman’s voice.
    “ Cronan, the barbarian? You’ve got to be kidding.”
    He looked up and stared at the face of his partner, Angelica Ramirez. She shook her head in questionable amusement.
    “Wasn’t my idea,” he said. “But around here, whoever gives a show, gets the dough.”
    People understood money. When anyone asked about why he voluntarily subjected himself to the abuse of a fight club, money had become his stock answer, but that didn’t come close to the real reason. Sometimes a guy had to hit something. Anything . Drawing blood the hard way had an added bonus. Being a cop and upholding the law fit most days.
    When it didn’t, he came looking for a fight.
    “Hello, Angel.” Cronan wiped the towel over his face and cocked his head. “How did you know where to find me?”
    “ I’m your partner, and this is familiar turf.” She grinned. “Besides, seeing the way you used your face to block his punches, that explains a lot.” Angel narrowed her eyes. “What did you say to get him to turn around?”
    “ That’s top secret. A defensive technique I learned from the Stooges. If I told you more, I’d have to give up my man card.” He smirked. “What are you doin’ here?”
    “ I wouldn’t have barged in on your fun, tough guy, except you weren’t answering your cell.”
    “ Sorry. Having my head bashed in takes concentration. What couldn’t wait?”
    Seeing her in this place surprised him. Whatever brought her to his migrating fight club had to be important. A woman like Angel stood out anywhere, but even more in this cesspool. He had to admit that he fantasized about her, usually after alcohol constipated his common sense. Nothing would ever happen between them. Angel had been married to his best friend, Manny Ramirez, a guy he’d known since childhood. He’d been best man at their wedding, but the good times ended when Manny lost his fight with a brain tumor two years into their marriage.
    Now Cronan felt protective of Angel, most of the time .
    Angel never flaunted her good looks. She didn’t have to. She bounced where a woman should bounce, and her dark soulful eyes were downright lethal, but dropping trow with a partner would be career suicide, even if he didn’t picture the face of his best friend every