PART 5
Shane stopped ten feet away, his voice quiet, conversational. “You put your hands on my daughter.”
“Your daughter’s a clumsy girl who can’t follow simple instructions,” Dustin sneered. “Told her your old self couldn’t protect her. She didn’t believe me, so I had to teach her some respect.”
The three fighters with them—Shane recognized their faces from Gabriel’s report: Lamar Duncan, Brenton Cantrell, and Andres White, all Viper associates—spread out slightly, surrounding him.
Perry stepped forward. “Here’s how this goes, Grandpa. You turn around, walk out, and forget you have a daughter, or my boys will make sure you leave on a stretcher.”
Shane smiled. It was the smile he’d given enemy combatants who didn’t know they were already defeated. “I was a Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat instructor for fifteen years. I trained Force Recon operators, MARSOC Raiders, and over three thousand combat Marines.” He rolled his shoulders, and suddenly the extra weight didn’t look so soft. “You’re going to need more than three guys.”
“Cocky old fool,” Perry nodded at his fighters. “Put him down.”
What happened next took seventeen seconds.
Lamar came in first, throwing a haymaker. Shane sidestepped, caught the arm, and executed a textbook wrist lock combined with a knee to the solar plexus. Lamar dropped like a stone, gasping.
Brenton and Andres rushed together. Shane moved like water, decades of muscle memory taking over. He deflected Brenton’s punch, trapped the arm, and delivered a palm strike to the ear that ruptured the eardrum. As Brenton screamed, Shane pivoted, caught Andres’s kick, swept the standing leg, and dropped an elbow on the falling fighter’s knee. The snap echoed through the gym. Fourteen seconds.
Perry Cox grabbed a training knife from a wall rack and lunged. Mistake. Shane’s disarm was reflexive. He trapped the weapon hand, controlled the wrist, and applied pressure to the nerve cluster while stepping into Perry’s center line. The knife clattered away. Shane drove three rapid strikes into Perry’s floating ribs, then swept both legs. Perry crashed onto his back. Shane followed him down, knee on sternum, and delivered two precise strikes to the jaw that sent Perry into darkness.
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Seventeen seconds. Three fighters and a coach on the ground—two unconscious, one clutching a destroyed knee, one rolling in agony with a ruptured eardrum.
Shane stood and turned to Dustin Freeman. Dustin’s cocky grin had vanished. He backed toward the cage, hands up. “You’re finished! My uncle—”
