Blake Haron collapsed flat onto the canvas, his arms trembling as he wept ragged, hysterical tears of pure, un-calibrated ruin:
“Admiral... please! Look at me! I am a state champion! I didn't know the boy was connected to the military! Vance paid me fifty thousand dollars to humiliate the kid and force the father to move out of the county!”
CLACK.
Two SOG tactical operators stepped forward across the mat:
Their gloved hands caught Blake Haron by his wrists, spun his two-hundred-pound frame ninety degrees against the canvas, and ratcheted heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints around his wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps:
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SNAP.
SNAP.
A second set of chains clamped around his ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth:
SNAP-CLINK.
With one sharp, professional motion, the female tactical operator stripped the silver championship chain from Blake’s neck, dropping the unearned luxury into a heavy mylar evidence bag:
