Chapter 3 - The Anatomy of Dismantling
The first heavyweight moved before Dustin could give the command.
He was a two-hundred-and-forty-pound amateur kickboxer named Jax, sporting a shaved head and tribal tattoos across his pectorals.
He charged forward with his chin tucked, swinging a wide, looping right overhand that was meant to crush my skull against the reception counter.
It was a punch designed for an octagon cage, full of windup, telegraphing its trajectory two full seconds before arrival.
I did not step back.
I stepped inside the radius of the blow, slipping my head beneath the arc of his forearm.
My left heel pivoted into the rubber matting, transferring ninety percent of my body weight into the heel of my right palm.
The strike drove upward at a forty-five-degree angle directly into the base of his nose.
The sound of cartilage shattering inside his nasal cavity sounded like someone stepping on dry kindling.
Before his brain could process the trauma, my left hand seized his extended wrist, twisting it inward until the ligaments popped.
I drove my right elbow down into the hinge of his collarbone with the full deadweight of my torso.
Jax dropped to the floor like an unstrung puppet, his breath leaving him in a ragged, bloody gurgle.
The entire engagement took less than two seconds.
The three remaining fighters froze, their eyes widening in disbelief as their training partner lay convulsing in agony on the floor.
Brock was the first to react, his instincts screaming that this was not a barroom scrap.
“Get him!” Brock roared, lunging forward with a wild tackle.
“Take him to the ground and stomp his head!”
The two middleweights flanking Brock charged simultaneously, trying to flank me from the left and right.
The man on the right went for a low single-leg takedown, exposing the crown of his skull.
I stepped back with my left leg to create clearance, driving my right heel down in an axe-kick motion against the back of his exposed neck.
His face smashed flat into the concrete floor with a sickening wet crunch, knocking him unconscious instantly.
The fighter on the left threw a rapid three-punch boxing combination: jab, cross, left hook.
I parried the jab with the outside of my forearm, redirected the cross with an open palm, and caught his left wrist mid-hook.
Using his forward momentum, I pivoted on my heel and drove my thumb directly into the nerve cluster behind his jawline.
His knees buckled beneath him as electric shockwaves paralyzed his central nervous system.
I did not let him fall naturally.
I twisted his arm over my shoulder, applying steady, calculated leverage until his elbow dislocated with a loud, hollow pop.
He screamed, collapsing against the leg of the reception desk, clutching his ruined arm in blind panic.
That left Brock and Dustin.
Brock reached behind him, grabbed the steel folding chair, and swung it horizontally like a baseball bat aimed at my ribs.
I stepped into the weapon rather than away from it, jamming the motion before the chair could gain rotational velocity.
My left forearm absorbed the steel bar, deadening the impact, while my right hand caught Brock by the throat.
I drove him backward six feet across the room, slamming the back of his skull against the reinforced steel cage frame.
The chain-link mesh rattled violently, showering rust flakes onto the canvas floor.
I drove my thumb into the carotid artery on the side of his neck, cutting off the blood flow to his brain.
Brock’s eyes rolled back into his head, his hands clawing at my wrists in frantic desperation.
Within four seconds, his oxygen-starved brain shut down, and his limp body slid down the cage wire into a heap of sweat and shame.
Now, the gym was silent except for the groans of the three men bleeding on the floor.
I stood in the center of the room, my breathing perfectly even, my heart rate steady at sixty beats a minute.
Dustin was standing near the center of the mats, his hands half-raised in a trembling boxing stance.
The color had drained entirely from his face, leaving his skin the shade of wet cardboard.
“You’re an old man,” Dustin whispered, his voice trembling as he backed toward the far corner.
“My uncle is going to kill you for this.”
“Your uncle is not in this room, Dustin.”
“Stay back! I’m an undefeated professional!”
Dustin threw a desperate, lightning-fast right straight punch that had knocked out three opponents in the regional circuit.
It was his signature strike, delivered with crisp hip rotation and lethal intent.
I did not dodge it.
I deflected the blow with my left palm, swept my right foot behind his lead ankle, and drove my knee directly into his groin.
Dustin doubled over with an agonizing gasp, all the air exploding from his lungs.
Before he could fall, I grabbed him by the back of his neck and slammed his face into the padded turnbuckle.
Blood sprayed across the white canvas ropes.
I threw him to the center of the mat, stepped on his right hand with the heavy heel of my work boot, and pressed down until the small bones in his metacarpals began to creak.
Dustin shrieked, thrashing beneath my weight like a landed fish.
“Do you remember what you said to Evelyn?” I asked, leaning down until he could smell the cedar wood on my jacket.
“I’m sorry!” he screamed, tears mixing with the blood pouring from his broken nose.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vance! Please don’t break it!”
“You told her that she was your property.”
I increased the pressure of my boot, feeling three distinct snaps beneath my sole.
Dustin’s scream reached a fever pitch before dissolving into hysterical sobbing.
“You told her that whatever happens in your house is your private law.”
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear.
“Consider this a military inspection of your domestic borders.”
I reached into his gym bag sitting on the bench, pulled out his expensive encrypted smartphone, and took the set of keys to his house.
“If you ever come within fifty miles of Evelyn again, I will not call the police.”
Dustin nodded frantically, his face pressed flat against the bloody canvas.
“Do you understand me, Dustin?”
“Yes! Yes, sir! I swear to God, yes!”
I lifted my boot from his ruined hand, walked back to the reception counter, and picked up my wedding ring and my watch.
May you like
I strapped the watch onto my wrist, slid the ring back onto my finger, and unlocked the heavy deadbolt.
The rain outside was cool against my burning face as I stepped out into the night.
