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.
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—”
Shane closed the distance in two steps. Dustin threw a combination—jab, cross, hook. Shane parried each strike, then delivered a front kick to the solar plexus that sent Dustin stumbling backward into the cage wall.
