Chapter 2 - The Four HeavyweightsThe four heavyweight fighters—each weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds, built like brick walls, wearing branded gym shorts and taped hands—exchanged nervous glances for a fraction of a second.

Then, the largest one, a heavyweight named Marcus with a shaved head and cauliflower ears, let out a roar and charged at me like a bull.

He threw a wild, heavy right hook designed to knock my head off my shoulders.

In a street fight, amateurs think power comes from swinging wide. In MARSOC combat, power comes from efficiency and distance control.

I didn't back up. I stepped directly into his attack vector, ducking beneath the arc of his hook, my right forearm sliding behind his neck while my left hand struck his lower rib cage with a open-palm heel strike.

CRACK!

The impact fractured two of his floating ribs instantly.

Marcus let out a guttural scream, but before his body could drop, I twisted his neck counter-clockwise, using his own momentum to slam his face flat against the iron turnbuckle of the nearest MMA cage.

BOOM!

His nose shattered on impact, spraying crimson blood across the white canvas. Marcus collapsed limp against the apron, out cold before he hit the floor.

Three seconds. Two fighters down.

The remaining three fighters backed up two paces, their eyes wide with a sudden, horrifying realization. They weren't dealing with an angry, grieving father. They were dealing with a living weapon who didn't care about points, referees, or rounds.

"Get him!" Briggs screamed from behind them, his face turning a dark, mottled purple. "Kill him! He's just an old man!"

The three fighters rushed me simultaneously.

The fighter on the left went for a double-leg takedown, attempting to drag me to the canvas where his bjj training gave him an advantage. The fighter on the right threw a flurry of rapid jab-cross combinations, while the third tried to circle behind me.

I pivoted on my back foot, using the lead fighter’s momentum as a shield.

As the takedown fighter reached for my knees, I drove my right knee straight up into his nose.

SNAP!

The force of the knee strike lifted him two inches off the floor before he dropped face-first onto the rubber mats, unconscious and bleeding profusely.

Without missing a beat, I swept my leg back, catching the second fighter across his knee joint with a brutal low oblique kick. His kneecap popped out of its socket with a sickening CRUNCH, sending him screaming to his knees. I caught his collar as he fell, driving my right fist cleanly into his temple.

He went limp instantly.

The fourth fighter—the one who had tried to circle behind me—stopped dead in his tracks. His hands were raised in a guard, but his fingers were trembling violently. He looked at his three teammates lying unconscious on the floorboards, then looked at me.

I hadn't even lost my breath. My flannel shirt wasn't torn.

"Please..." the fourth fighter whimpered, taking a slow step back toward the locked entrance. "I... I didn't touch your daughter... I don't even know her name..."

"Then sit down on that bench and keep your mouth shut," I commanded softly.

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The fighter dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms over his head, curling against the wall without saying another word.

I turned around slowly, my eyes locking onto Coach Briggs, who stood alone beside the cage, his breath coming in short, terrified hitches.