spare before the press party started, but, yeah, something was definitely off with the old man tonight. Nikko could ask, but then he’d have to pretend to give a shit, and the whole charade was just too exhausting.
“News flash, you’re fighting Cade Kennedy tomorrow, so that means you’re now the face of the CFA, so glam for the goddamn cam, will ya? The league is spending a ton of money on reshaping the image of MMA.”
Nikko laughed at the irony, a sharp, sarcastic bark. “If this is the face they want showcasing the Cage Fighting Association, then their marketing director should get fired.”
“Agreed. Were it up to me, Easton would be fronting this organization and representing my camp. No offense, but you clearly couldn’t care less, and he knows how to play the game. He draws in a big crowd, which means bigger money. But his shoulder is still healing after getting shot to hell, and he doesn’t have medical clearance to fight, so, tag, you’re it, asshole.” Coach saluted him and tossed back a shot.
“Old man, you better slow it down with those shooters or you’re going to be flat on your ass in no time. Maybe you should take a—” Flashing lights exploded around him, the click, click, click of cameras seeming to come out of nowhere. Nikko flinched at the blinding brightness. He couldn’t see, the burst of lights sparking a flashback of memories that hijacked his consciousness. And just like that, he was another man, from another time, in another place, living someone else’s nightmare—no, his nightmare, the one that played on an endless loop, haunting him day and night. He knew how the story ended, and yet he was helpless to stop it.
Darkness descended, the sharp pop of semiautomatic gunfire echoing all around him. The hot graphite smell of gunpowder permeated the air, mixing with the dust of countless spent rounds, burning his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The muzzle flashes around them gave away his enemy’s position—they were outnumbered—and the Tali were closing in fast. The ping of metal ricocheted off rocks, which were the only protection between his squad and the enemy. This was his mission, his recon team, and it was his responsibility to get them out alive. They needed to ghost before these ragheads pinned them down and flanked them.
His grip tightened on the base of his weapon, his mind racing through their limited options, scenarios flashing through his brain like a reel of movie clips—all ending in disaster. Fuck . . . Alice-Gahn was supposed to be deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten shitty intel, and if they made it out of here alive, someone’s nuts were going to be on the chopping block.
“Hey, Bull, lay some cover fire for me, will ya? I’m going to try to flank this fucker.”
Remington, the recon team’s sniper and his best friend since boot camp, was gunning for the raghead, firing the majority of the rounds northwest of them. Dammit, something didn’t feel right about all of this. Nikko’s instincts were lighting up like the Fourth of July, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He grabbed for Remmy to stop him, but the cowboy was already gone, blitzing straight west at a dead run. Nikko snarled a foul curse and flipped the switch to Auto on his M4A1 and squeezed the trigger, raining a hailstorm of lead on Remmy’s target. Pop!
Something sharp bit into his hand. He hardly felt the slicing pain or the warm liquid running down his palm. But the slew of blasphemies rioting beside him grabbed his attention.
He glanced right—no one was there—then left—nope, still alone. So who in the hell was grabbing him?
The grip on his arm was like a vise, clamping down on his wrist and refusing to let him go.
He couldn’t pull the trigger! Remmy was on his own, a good thirty meters from the burned-out hut that would serve as his sanctuary. Nikko tried to yank his arm free once, twice—still stuck. “Fuck!”
He saw
“News flash, you’re fighting Cade Kennedy tomorrow, so that means you’re now the face of the CFA, so glam for the goddamn cam, will ya? The league is spending a ton of money on reshaping the image of MMA.”
Nikko laughed at the irony, a sharp, sarcastic bark. “If this is the face they want showcasing the Cage Fighting Association, then their marketing director should get fired.”
“Agreed. Were it up to me, Easton would be fronting this organization and representing my camp. No offense, but you clearly couldn’t care less, and he knows how to play the game. He draws in a big crowd, which means bigger money. But his shoulder is still healing after getting shot to hell, and he doesn’t have medical clearance to fight, so, tag, you’re it, asshole.” Coach saluted him and tossed back a shot.
“Old man, you better slow it down with those shooters or you’re going to be flat on your ass in no time. Maybe you should take a—” Flashing lights exploded around him, the click, click, click of cameras seeming to come out of nowhere. Nikko flinched at the blinding brightness. He couldn’t see, the burst of lights sparking a flashback of memories that hijacked his consciousness. And just like that, he was another man, from another time, in another place, living someone else’s nightmare—no, his nightmare, the one that played on an endless loop, haunting him day and night. He knew how the story ended, and yet he was helpless to stop it.
Darkness descended, the sharp pop of semiautomatic gunfire echoing all around him. The hot graphite smell of gunpowder permeated the air, mixing with the dust of countless spent rounds, burning his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The muzzle flashes around them gave away his enemy’s position—they were outnumbered—and the Tali were closing in fast. The ping of metal ricocheted off rocks, which were the only protection between his squad and the enemy. This was his mission, his recon team, and it was his responsibility to get them out alive. They needed to ghost before these ragheads pinned them down and flanked them.
His grip tightened on the base of his weapon, his mind racing through their limited options, scenarios flashing through his brain like a reel of movie clips—all ending in disaster. Fuck . . . Alice-Gahn was supposed to be deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten shitty intel, and if they made it out of here alive, someone’s nuts were going to be on the chopping block.
“Hey, Bull, lay some cover fire for me, will ya? I’m going to try to flank this fucker.”
Remington, the recon team’s sniper and his best friend since boot camp, was gunning for the raghead, firing the majority of the rounds northwest of them. Dammit, something didn’t feel right about all of this. Nikko’s instincts were lighting up like the Fourth of July, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He grabbed for Remmy to stop him, but the cowboy was already gone, blitzing straight west at a dead run. Nikko snarled a foul curse and flipped the switch to Auto on his M4A1 and squeezed the trigger, raining a hailstorm of lead on Remmy’s target. Pop!
Something sharp bit into his hand. He hardly felt the slicing pain or the warm liquid running down his palm. But the slew of blasphemies rioting beside him grabbed his attention.
He glanced right—no one was there—then left—nope, still alone. So who in the hell was grabbing him?
The grip on his arm was like a vise, clamping down on his wrist and refusing to let him go.
He couldn’t pull the trigger! Remmy was on his own, a good thirty meters from the burned-out hut that would serve as his sanctuary. Nikko tried to yank his arm free once, twice—still stuck. “Fuck!”
He saw
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