Chapter 1 - The Lock in the DoorThe iron deadbolt engaged with a heavy, metallic CLACK that echoed off the concrete walls of the gym.
I turned the brass key, pulled it from the lock, and slid it into the front pocket of my faded denim jeans.
The sound of the lock turning seemed to cut off the outside world entirely, sealing the cold evening air of the alley out and locking the suffocating stench of stale sweat, leather, and blood inside.
The four heavyweight fighters surrounding me stopped chuckling for half a second.
The coach, a six-foot-four wall of muscle named Briggs with a skull tattoo inked directly over his left ear, adjusted his posture, his small eyes narrowing as he watched me slide my hands into my pockets.
"Did you just lock the door, old man?" Briggs asked, his voice a low, raspy growl.
"I locked it so none of you run out onto the street when this starts," I answered smoothly. My voice didn't carry anger. It didn't carry dramatic rage. It carried the flat, terrifying neutrality of an instructor walking onto a mat at Marine Corps Base Quantico.
Dustin let out a loud, mocking bark of laughter, stepping even closer, his chest almost touching the front of my flannel shirt. He smelled of menthol rub and cheap cologne.
"Look at him, Coach!" Dustin sneered, turning his head toward the cage. "The old man thinks he's in an action movie! He thinks his little story about the Marines makes him dangerous!"
Dustin turned back to face me, his right hand shooting out fast to slap my shoulder in a classic disrespect jab.
He never touched me.
My left hand flashed up, catching his wrist mid-air with a thumb-lock grip that applied instant pressure to his radial nerve. Before his brain could register the contact, I stepped inside his hip, driving my left elbow straight into the soft flesh beneath his throat.
THWACK!
Dustin’s breath exploded out of his lungs in a wet, choking gasp. His eyes rolled back into his head as his knees buckled instantly, his six-foot-two frame crashing flat onto the rubber matting like a sack of wet flour.
He lay there on his side, curling into a ball, clutching his throat, wheezing frantically for air that wouldn't come.
The entire gym went dead silent.
The four heavyweight fighters who had been posturing around me froze mid-stride, their confident smirks completely vanishing.
Briggs dropped his clipboard. The wooden board clattered loudly against the floor.
"Dustin!" Briggs yelled, taking two fast paces forward. He looked down at his prized fighter gasping on the floor, then raised his eyes to glare at me with a mixture of shock and unadulterated fury. "You... you dirty old bastard!"
May you like
I didn't look down at Dustin. I unbuttoned my cuffs, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms, exposing the thick, rope-like tendons and faded tactical tattoos earned over fifteen years of hand-to-hand combat instruction for Force Recon.
"He put his hands on my daughter," I said softly, stepping over Dustin’s wheezing body. "Now it's your turn."
Related Stories
