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.
