Mike gestured to the bleachers. “Would you like to sit?” he asked Avalyn.
She shook her head. “I don’t think I could.”
He nodded and stayed standing next to her. Oddly enough, Avalyn had grown to like some of these bodyguards. Besides the fact they upheld Ramsey’s wishes, were paid mercenaries, and had tasered Bridger last night, they seemed like good guys.
She focused on the men in the ring, who were slowly moving toward each other. Bridger was strong, but Ramsey would most likely do something underhanded. It was his typical mode of operation.
Ramsey led with a solid swing to Bridger’s abdomen. Bridger grunted, but the hit hadn’t fazed him at all, and he moved in close and his fists started swinging. He hit Ramsey with repeated punches, the muscles in his broad back flexing with each punch. Ramsey got in his fair share of hits. Avalyn cringed each time, sometimes crying out, especially when Ramsey slammed his fist into Bridger’s bruised shoulder. After one vicious roundhouse to his shoulder, Bridger fell back, his face contorted with pain.
Avalyn wanted to go to him, hold him. Instead, she stayed rooted to her spot, praying and wringing her hands together. If Bridger won, they would be free and maybe they could figure out their relationship. If he lost … who knew what Ramsey’s next challenge would be?
* * *
Bridger had been aching for this fight for the past four days. He came out swinging, and Ramsey didn’t disappoint, trading hit for hit with him. It felt great to slam his fists into Ramsey’s body and let out his frustration and anger over his former friend putting him and Avalyn through these insane challenges.
They pummeled each other for who knew how long, and though the hits hurt, especially the ones to his sore shoulder, he didn’t slow down. Last time they’d fought, neither of them had won, but today he had to win this battle. He would. It was past time to get Avalyn away from this monster and prove that he would love her and only her.
Ramsey popped him in the nose, and in the resulting burst of pain, Bridger heard the crunch and felt blood gush out. “I had to give you something to remember me by,” Ramsey said.
Bridger wiped it away with his hand and moved back in. “You keep thinking you’ll escape once you set me free.” He slugged him hard in the abdomen, and Ramsey grunted. “Have you heard of Sutton Smith and Creed Hawk? We’ll come for you and you’ll be rotting in a prison cell before the end of the week.”
Ramsey laughed and jabbed him in the shoulder again. “That looks sore, Bridge.”
Bridger hit him with an uppercut to the chin. Ramsey’s head flew back, but he simply danced around and grinned. Bridger wiped the blood off of his nose again with the back of his hand.
“You’re ticked at me, right, bro?” Ramsey taunted.
“You have no idea,” Bridger said, slamming his fist into Ramsey’s side. The man had endangered and terrified the woman Bridger loved desperately. Ticked didn’t begin to describe the way he felt toward Ramsey right now.
Ramsey pointed at the side of his head. “Then take me out!” he yelled. “I’ll give you a free shot. You deserve it after these past few days.”
Bridger eyed Ramsey, waiting for the trick. He might break his hand on Ramsey’s skull, but that point on the side of Ramsey’s head—right below his ear—would definitely knock the guy out. It would be worth a broken hand to end this and be done.
“Come on!” Ramsey hollered at him, turning his head to give him an easier shot.
A primeval yell ripped out of Bridger’s throat as he took the shot. He smashed his fist into Ramsey’s head. Ramsey went down hard. His head whiplashed as he hit the mat, bounced, and then settled.
Bridger wanted to dive on him and keep hitting, but he forced himself to unclench his fists. Ramsey’s eyes were shut, but Bridger could see his chest rising and falling. He heard footsteps and looked over to see Ramsey’s men infiltrating the arena. Bridger put up his hands and stepped back. “He told me to take the shot.”
“We know, sir,” Klein said. He gestured out of the ring as other men dropped to their knees next to Ramsey.
Bridger was amazed once again at their devotion. He shrugged it off and strode to the edge of the ring, slid out, and then jumped to the ground. One of the men handed him a wet towel and a water bottle. He used the towel to mop up his face, gingerly touching his nose, which was probably broken. At least the bleeding had slowed.
He focused in on Avalyn. She stared at him for half a beat; then she ran and threw herself into his arms. Bridger pulled her in tight with his free arm. He was sweaty and bloody, but she didn’t seem to care. He held her close, loving her in his embrace.
Avalyn glanced up at him. “You did it. We’re finally free.”
He smiled down at her, but his stomach felt sick. He’d just knocked Ramsey out, but Ramsey had let him, had told him to hit him in the head. Why? He glanced back up at the ring. Men were still surrounding Ramsey.
“I hate to interrupt,” Mike said at Bridger’s elbow, “but our instructions are to get you two back to Miss Shaman’s plane and send you on your way. Her pilot and stewardess have been informed and are awaiting your arrival.”
“What about Ramsey?” Bridger couldn’t believe he cared, but Ramsey had yet to stir. Why had Ramsey given him a fair fight? Why did he taunt Bridger to hit him in the head and end it all? What did that mean? What if Bridger had hit him hard enough to cause brain damage or something?
“They’ll take good care of him, sir.” Mike ushered them toward the door.
Bridger kept one arm around Avalyn, clutching the bloody towel and water bottle with his other hand. He glanced back as they exited the door. He could only see Ramsey’s feet and a cluster of men bent around him. Ramsey still wasn’t moving.
ChapterEighteen