Radclyffe - Word of Honor

“I will.” Cam disconnected, collected her keys and wallet and gym bag from the closet, and headed out the door.

The first thing Cam saw when she turned down the narrow alley off Houston was the Suburban in the middle of the block, parked halfway up on the sidewalk to allow delivery trucks and the occasional cab to get past. She was certain the agents in the vehicle took note of her, but there was no outward indication that they saw her. She didn’t acknowledge them either as she pushed through the unmarked windowless door sandwiched between a shoe repair shop that had been closed for two decades—a few unclaimed shoes coated with a thick layer of dust lay on the counter behind the smeared front window—and a bodega with iron grates drawn down to the sidewalk. The instant she stepped into the dimly lit hallway and began climbing the steep narrow stairs, she smelled mold, sweat, and testosterone. The third floor reverberated with the rumble of male voices and bodies falling, and heavy equipment thudding onto the floor. The warehouse-sized space was lit at intervals with fluorescent lights dangling unevenly on chains and whatever light filtered through the grimy windows set high in the wall along the roof line. Two roped-off boxing rings with stained canvas mats stood center stage, surrounded by a haphazard array of weightlifting equipment, speed bags, and hanging heavy bags. As was often the case, Blair was the only woman in a sea of bulked-up men covered with tattoos and scars. One of the new members of Blair’s team, Cliff Vaughn, a muscular African American looking out of place in his tailored slacks and double-breasted blazer, stood with his arms folded over his chest on the far side of the boxing ring where Blair was sparring with a young white guy with a shaved head and prison tats on his neck. Patrice Hara, flanking the ring on the side closest to Cam, nodded a greeting without taking her eyes off Blair as Cam slipped up beside her.

“Morning, Commander,” Hara said.

“Hara. How’s she doing?”

“She’s playing with him.”

“Ah.” That was not good news. When Blair was spoiling for a real fight, she never instigated it. Being smaller and more agile than all of her opponents, she frustrated them by refusing to engage—slipping or blocking their punches and then sneaking in for a quick jab. Men who weren’t used to her very quickly forgot that they weren’t supposed to hit a woman, and after each impotent blow they threw, they came back harder. Blair couldn’t avoid every punch indefinitely, and ultimately, one landed hard enough to knock her down. Then she came out swinging, and they swung back. She usually managed to fight off her pent-up fury, but unfortunately, she ended up taking a beating too. This morning, Cam just wasn’t in the mood to see Blair get hammered by this young guy’s hard right hand.

Quickly, she skirted around the ring to the tiny women’s changing room. A single bench stood before three rickety steel lockers without locks. She pulled open a locker, stripped down to her sports bra, and tossed in her clothes. Then she yanked on long, loose blood-red Thai fighting shorts and kicked into her loafers for the walk back to the ring. A few heads turned but she stared straight ahead, wrapping her hands with fight tape on her way. When she reached the ring she slid an arm under the lower rope and slapped the mat hard to get the fighters’ attention. As soon as both Blair and her opponent turned in her direction, Cam vaulted the ropes into the ring, barefoot.

“Thanks for warming her up,” Cam said in a friendly tone as she tapped her fist lightly against the young guy’s shoulder. “You mind if I get in a few rounds?” Her tone of voice indicated it wasn’t a request.

The guy shrugged. “Sure. She’s slippery.”

“I noticed.”

“Don’t you have a briefing?” Blair said as she danced from foot to foot. She’d tied her hair back with a rolled black bandanna and she wore her usual sparring outfit—a cut off T-shirt that left her midriff bare and gray cotton gym shorts. A strip of tape covered her navel ring to prevent it from being torn out inadvertently.

“Savard’s handling it.” Cam bowed slightly. “Freestyle?”

Blair grinned and tilted her head. “Sounds good.”

Cam’s fighting style was a mixture of Thai kickboxing and the hand-to-hand combat techniques employed by federal agents. Blair had adapted her formal martial arts training to street fighting. They were equally matched. Cam raised her hands to face level, her fists loosely clenched, and circled. Blair, pumped from having been sparring a while, didn’t hesitate. She feinted a punch and swept Cam’s legs out from under her. Cam hit the canvas and rolled backward, rising to her feet just in time to block the follow-up jab she knew was coming. They traded kicks and blows for ten minutes until they were both drenched in sweat, then Cam sidestepped a snap kick aimed at her chin that could have broken her jaw if it had landed. She swung around behind Blair, clamped her forearm across Blair’s throat, and planted her knee in the center of Blair’s back. Then she lifted in a move designed to snap an opponent’s neck or break their spine. She modulated the force of both the choke and the backbend so she wouldn’t injure Blair, but it was a painful hold nonetheless. Blair resisted for a few seconds, then rapidly slapped Cam’s arm twice to signal submission.

Immediately, Cam released her and stepped back.

“You okay?” Cam asked, panting lightly.

Blair nodded, also breathing quickly. “Nice move. I always forget that when you fight, you fight to kill.”

“These guys at Ernie’s aren’t the right partners for you. We should set you up with Stark or Hara so you can learn to fight the way you need to on the street.”

“Why not Wozinski?” Blair grinned.

“You might hurt him.”

“I didn’t hurt you.” Blair gripped the ropes, swung over onto the floor in one fluid motion, and headed off.

Cam quickly followed her to the locker room.

“So,” Blair said as she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped it on the bench. She peeled her shorts off and faced Cam nude, the width of the narrow bench all that separated them. “You think I need to learn to fight to kill?”

Cam skimmed her finger down the center of Blair’s chest, gathering a drop of sweat on her fingertip. Holding Blair’s gaze, she touched the tip of her tongue to the tiny droplet. “I do.”

Blair’s eyes darkened and her skin flushed. “We managed to fuck in here once with no one noticing. Care to try for twice?”

“I want,” Cam said with a grin. “But I think not.”

“We’re getting old.”

“We have a comfortable bed twenty minutes away.”

Blair leaned over the bench and braced both hands on Cam’s shoulders. Then she kissed her, a long, probing kiss designed to make them both needy. It worked. She pulled away, breathing hard. “I missed sleeping with you last night.”

Cam stripped, aware of Blair’s eyes raking over her body. “I missed you too.”

“Are you mad?”

Cam stepped over the bench and pulled Blair into her arms. She coursed her hands up and down Blair’s back, caressing the hard pumped muscles beneath her satin skin. Blair parted her thighs in a movement as innate as drawing breath, and just as naturally, Cam slid her leg between them. Cam kissed Blair’s mouth, her neck, the base of her throat. She whispered against her skin, “I’m sorry.”

Blair drove her fingers into Cam’s thick dark hair and pulled her head back to cover her mouth with another bruising kiss. Their bodies, slick with sweat from the workout and the heat of rising passion, fused. Blair traced her lips over the rim of Cam’s ear. “I love you so much it hurts.”