Wildfire (Hidden Legacy #3)(38)

Dave chased him. Rogan backed away, trying to dodge a wild barrage of punches. Dave was on him, swinging, his breathing labored and heavy. His face turned purple. He was sucking air in shallow gasps.

Jab, overhand right, hook, cross.

Rogan stepped into the punch, sliding between Dave's arms, wrapped his left arm over Dave's right, catching it in the bend of his elbow, so the giant man's forearm rested on Rogan's shoulder. He locked the fingers of his hands together and twisted, throwing all of his weight to the right. A loud pop echoed through the park. Dave howled, a raw, terrible cry of pure pain. He sounded like an animal screaming.

Rogan moved away. Dave straightened, his face contorted by rage. His right arm hung useless at his side. Rogan had snapped his elbow like a twig.

The aegis shivered in place, her face pale.

Dave charged, reaching for Rogan's throat. Rogan backed up at the last minute, sapping the speed out of Dave's attack, moved in, turning all the way to the left, so his right arm slid over Dave's left, and bent his elbow, trapping Dave's arm in his armpit. Rogan's fingers locked on Dave's wrist. There was another sharp pop. Dave screamed and collapsed on the ground, his wrist still in Rogan's hand. Rogan moved his left leg over Dave, clamping the man's arm between his legs, stepped all the way to the right, and twisted again. Another crack. Dave was screaming his heart out. The aegis shrieked like a dying bird.

"Rogan, stop," I called. "That's enough."



       
         
       
        

"Are you done?" Rogan asked.

"Fuck you!" Dave spat.

"Dave!" the aegis cried out.

"The man isn't done. He's still got two good legs left."

Rogan picked up Dave's left leg, pulled it straight, and rolled back, sitting around it, so his right leg was locked over Dave's thigh. He would snap Dave's knee.

The aegis flung her gun across the lawn and looked at me, her face desperate.

I ran to Rogan and dropped on my knees by him. "Enough. Please. Please."

"Is it enough?" Rogan asked.

Dave moaned. He was purple like a plum now, his breathing so fast, he wasn't getting in any air.

I put my hands on Rogan's steel-hard calf. "Please. He can't even talk anymore. He can't tell you to stop."

Dave raised his palm and slapped the ground.

Rogan released his leg and stood up in a single fluid movement. His voice could've frozen over the Gulf. "Don't come after her. She won't stop me next time. Tell your brothers. You come after her again, I'll go through your House until none of you are left."

Dave deflated slightly, his skin turning a more human color. Sweat drenched him. He sucked in air, leaned on his side, and vomited.

The aegis knelt by him, a water bottle in her hand.

I wrapped my hand around Rogan's arm. "Let's go home."

We got into the car. I slid into the driver's seat, started the Range Rover, and drove back to the street before Rogan decided to go back.

He leaned back in his seat, his face calm. He had to be hurting.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

He nodded.

"How bad is it?"

"I'll live."

Dave was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Daniela once told me that Rogan hated feeling helpless more than anything. He would go to any length to avoid it. My going into Rynda's house while he was across the city made him feel helpless and scared. He needed to let it out. He needed to hurt someone, and Dave had presented himself as a threat to me. Rogan broke him and would've kept on breaking if I didn't stop him.

The Belize War had changed Rogan. It changed everyone, but it had torn him apart and he had to remake himself to survive. He served as the army's ultimate weapon. He would walk into a city, reach into the deepest part of his soul, where the magic was wild, and let it out, and the city would crumble and fall around him. He inspired fear. They gave him scary names. The Butcher of Merida. The Scourge of Mexico. Huracan. As if he weren't a man but some terrifying legend come to life. And then he ended up in a jungle, miles into enemy territory, with soldiers depending on him for their lives. Using magic would've saved him but his soldiers wouldn't survive. So he didn't use it. He walked them out of that jungle, but very few people knew what those weeks in Belize had cost him. He would never again fit into the civilian life. Rogan would never be "normal." He left the military five years ago, but it made no difference. He was still in. 

"Did I scare you?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't have to go toe-to-toe with him."

"Yes, I did." Understanding dawned on him. "Wait. You were scared for me?"