Page 33 of Ash Storm

Ash

His fist connected solidly with his opponent’s jaw at the point where the jaw connected to the ear.

The fool’s not even clenching his jaw.

Ash held on to the top of the Irishman’s hair with his other hand, stopping the man’s neck from turning. He wanted to disable the man, rather than to cause him permanent harm.

When the kinetic energy was spent, Ash released him. His opponent fell to the ground, howling. He scuttled away from Ash in a crab-like fashion, trying to escape the black mat that’d been set up for the fight.

Ash made no attempt to go after him. The man was going to be drinking through a straw and unable to yawn for a while, but a dislocated jaw was much easier to correct than a skull fracture.

The fight master ripped the bracelet around the man’s upper arm—in his case with the number four—and handed it to Ash.

Ash put the bracelet in his pocket and raised his arms, roaring his victory.

Around them, men laughed, seemingly entertained by the fight. The courtyard had been filling up steadily, even though Ash knew the fights competed as entertainment with the dancing, the drinking, and the riddles going on inside the main palace.

Afsan had gone all out to recreate the world of One Thousand and One Nights.

Unfortunately, he and the other fighters weren’t allowed in the main palace. If that was where the women were kept, he was going to have to find his way inside at some point.

He forced himself back to the business at hand.

One fight down.

Two to go.

As fights went, this one hadn’t been too strenuous. The Irishman had been strong, but uneducated in the ways of real close quarter combat fighting. Even though he could have easily ended the fight in the first thirty seconds, Ash had made it last a while, knowing the objective was to entertain the assholes watching.

Now that this fight was done, the audience moved to another mat, where his Turkish friend was fighting a stoic-looking Norseman.

Ash walked over to the bucket and dipped his cup inside, watching the fight with interest. The Norseman was a professional. He knew how to take a hit. But he was also a slugger—the kind of fighter always looking to land that one, brutal punch. And his opponent, in this case, was too fast and too skilled, simply not providing him with the opportunity. Soon, the Norseman was bleeding heavily out of one eye, his side vision shot. He now had to turn his head completely to see what was going on to his right.

Ash turned away, already knowing how the fight was going to end. He had a feeling the Turkish fighter would be one of the winners of the evening.

He strolled around the courtyard, doing his best to memorize the faces of the twenty or so guests who milled about.

Guests.

Bile rose in Ash’s throat at the thought that these average-looking men were here to watch other men kill each other and to purchase women.

Griffin was nowhere to be seen. Ash worried he’d been discovered, somehow, but pushed the concern to the back of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it now, and reaching out to the team would just endanger him and the women.

A familiar face caught his attention. Him, Ash recognized from the pictures he’d seen. In person, he looked taller and fitter than he had in the pictures.

“That’s Ahmed Afsan,” a voice said behind him. “Our host.”

“You’re done already? That didn’t take long,” Ash said without turning around.

“He didn’t provide much of a challenge. I saw the way you put down the Irishman,” the Turkish fighter said. “It didn’t take you long, either.”

“To tell you the truth, Gezi, I was disappointed by his skill,” Ash said. He paused for a moment. “Mr. Afsan looks happy.”

“As he should be. Look at all those customers who came to participate in tomorrow’s big event.”

“Big event?”

“The auction. That’s what they’re really here for—not to watch us kill each other,” Gezi said simply.