SWOOSH.
I did not take a step backward.
My left palm flashed upward—fast, fluid, and unyielding as a forged steel vise.
The heel of my hand struck the inside of Blake’s bicep at the median nerve junction, neutralizing ninety percent of the strike’s kinetic velocity in less than two-hundredths of a second.
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Simultaneously, my right hand caught the collar of his leather glove, twisted his wrist forty-five degrees outward to lock the carpal bones against the ulna, and my right foot stepped behind his heel with the unhurried, rhythmic, concussive TACK of an anchor dropping into stone:
TACK.
A six-inch sweep.
Blake Haron’s two-hundred-pound frame was launched airborne, rotating horizontally three feet above the canvas, before crashing flat onto his spine with concussive, bone-jarring violence!
SLAM.
The entire plywood subfloor of the gym rattled like an earthquake.
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The air evacuated from Blake’s lungs in one violent, explosive, high-pitched squeak: OOF.
