Chapter 3 - The Coach’s FallBriggs backed away until his spine hit the steel mesh of the Octagon.
His cocky, arrogant demeanor had completely vanished, replaced by the raw, primal terror of a predator who had suddenly realized he was standing in the cage with something far higher on the food chain.
"Listen to me, old man," Briggs rasped, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a folding tactical knife with a four-inch serrated blade. CLICK. "You think you're tough?! I'll bleed you right here! My brother runs the South Side crew! If you lay a finger on me, your whole family dies!"
I didn't answer him.
I walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, my posture fluid, my hands resting at my sides.
"You taught Dustin that strength means hurting women," I said, my baritone echoing through the silent gym. "You taught him that power gives him the right to crush people who can't fight back."
Briggs lunged forward, thrusting the serrated blade straight toward my chest in a desperate, lethal stab.
In Marine MCMAP training, knife defense isn't about dodging; it's about controlling the weapon arm at the wrist and elbow simultaneously.
My left hand flashed out, deflecting his wrist inward, while my right hand slammed against his elbow joint, snapping his arm backward against its natural bend.
CRACK!
Briggs screamed—a high-pitched, pathetic shriek that echoed off the high ceilings—as the iron blade clattered uselessly onto the floor.
Before he could pull back, I grabbed his neck with both hands, driving my skull straight into the bridge of his nose in a lethal, head-on butt strike.
BOOM!
Blood exploded across his face. Briggs’s legs turned to rubber, his massive frame sliding down the steel mesh of the cage until he sat slumped on the mat, his hands clutching his shattered face, weeping hysterically like a child.
I reached down, grabbed him by his collar, and hoisted his heavy body off the floor, pinning him flat against the cage wall.
"Who is Dustin’s uncle?" I asked softly, my face two inches from his blood-soaked cheek.
"Frank... Frank Vance!" Briggs sobbed, his voice cracking into pathetic whimpers. "He runs the auto shop on 4th Street! He's the one who told Dustin he could do whatever he wanted to your girl! Please don't kill me!"
"If I ever see your face in this town again," I whispered into his ear, "I won't use my hands next time."
I let go of his collar. Briggs collapsed onto the floorboards in a pathetic, crying heap.
I turned my head.
Dustin was crawling on his hands and knees toward the back exit, his breath still ragged, blood dripping from his lips where he had bitten his tongue.
I walked over, stepping heavily on his outstretched hand.
CRUNCH.
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Dustin let out a muffled scream, looking up at me with eyes filled with pure, unadulterated terror.
"My daughter’s name is Evelyn," I told him, looking down into his pale face. "And tonight, you are going to learn what happens when a father comes for his girl."
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