Dead Aim. Anne Woodard
weighted pipe he was swinging caught her on the left shoulder.
It was a glancing blow, but it hit with enough force to draw a grunt of pain and send her to knees.
He’d expected her to roll away. Instead, she lunged toward him, low and fast. The heel of her hand connected where she’d aimed—right on his kneecap, where the force of the blow should at least knock him down if it didn’t cripple him outright.
She felt bone crunch on impact.
Cripple him, then. Good. That helped.
She rolled away, got to her feet, then spun and kicked with all her might.
She’d been aiming for his other knee, but this guy was a bully, not a trained fighter. Instead of preparing to counter her next blow, he was folding in on himself, reaching for his injured knee.
Her foot connected with his ribs. It wasn’t a well-placed blow, and she was still too off balance to put a lot of force behind it, but it was enough. He let out his breath in an explosive gasp of pain and dropped, then rolled away, out of reach.
Maggie turned, ready to help Rick, only to find he’d flattened his opponent and was already shoving the guy onto his face. The hold Rick had on the fellow’s arm, which he’d twisted up behind his back, assured a groaning compliance.
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