His other hand slid across her throat, grabbing the opposite lapel. A cross collar choke. It was deep, instantly deep. Rachel knew the defense, but Greg wasn't giving her time to execute it. He dropped his weight back down, sprawling his legs out, his forearms acting like a vise grip around her carotid arteries.
The pressure was immediate and agonizing. The thick abrasive collar of her own GI bit into the soft flesh of her throat. Rachel brought her hand up to tap. It was a good choke. She was caught.
She slapped the mat with her right hand. Slap. Slap. Slap. A clear, unambiguous signal to stop.
Greg didn't stop. He closed his eyes. His face contorting with exertion as he pulled tighter. The heavy cotton dug deeper. Rachel tapped frantically on his shoulder.
Slap. Slap. Slap. "Tap. " She tried to say, but the word died in her crushed windpipe. It came out as a wet, desperate hiss.
Greg pulled harder. He shifted his hips, maximizing the leverage. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Rachel's brain. This wasn't a mistake. He was looking right past her head.
He could feel her tapping. He could feel her frantic hands beating against his back. He was choosing to hold it. The edges of her vision began to blur, turning a fuzzy, static gray. The roar of the blood rushing in her ears drowned out the ambient noise of the gym.
The pain in her throat faded, replaced by a terrifying heavy lethargy. Her arms grew weak. The slapping slowed. Slap. Slap.
Her hand fell to the mat. The gray swallowed her completely. On the bleachers, Tom had stopped reading exactly four seconds ago. His eyes were locked on the far corner of the mat. He saw the initial tap.
He saw Greg's shoulders tense as he applied more torque. He saw Rachel's hand go limp. Tom didn't gasp. He didn't yell. The expression on his face didn't change from the placid mildly bored look he had worn since he walked in, but the temperature around him seemed to drop.
The relaxed posture of a bored husband vanished, replaced by the terrifying stillness of a man who had spent his adult life hunting other men in the dark. He didn't rush. Rushing implied a loss of control. Tom closed the paperback. He folded the corner of the page with meticulous care, marking his spot.
He set the book down on the aluminum bleacher. The sharp clack of the book hitting the metal was completely lost in the noise of the gym, but to Tom, it was the sounding of a bell. He stood up. Rachel woke up to the feeling of drowning. She gasped loudly, a horrific tearing sound escaping her bruised throat.
She rolled onto her side, coughing violently, her lungs burning as they fought to pull oxygen back into her system. The mat beneath her face was wet with her own tears and saliva. Whoa. Hey. Greg's voice floated above her, dripping with fake concern.
You went out, kid. Got to tap faster. Rachel pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her head was pounding, a miserable throbbing bass drum behind her eyes. She touched her throat.
It was already swelling, the skin raw and burning. I I I She rasped, her voice sounding like crushed glass. Greg chuckled, adjusting his belt. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. A few people were looking over, but most were still focused on their own rounds.
Didn't feel it, Greg lied smoothly. You were just flapping your hands around. You got to be definitive. Don't blame me because you held out too long trying to be tough. He reached out a hand to help her up.
Rachel stared at his hand. She felt humiliated, sick to her stomach, and profoundly angry. She ignored his hand, pulling herself up to her knees, her head hanging in exhaustion. All right, brush it off. Greg said, turning his back on her to survey the rest of the room.
Take a minute, then get back in. We don't quit here. She's done for the night. The voice was quiet. It wasn't shouted.
It didn't echo over the noise of the gym, but it possessed a specific dense gravity that cut through the room like a scalpel. Greg turned around. Tom was standing at the edge of the mat. He hadn't taken his shoes off. He was looking directly at Greg.
There was no anger in Tom's face. None at all. That was the most unsettling part. When men get angry, they posture. They puff out their chests.
They raise their chins. They scream to broadcast their intent. It's mammalian. It's a warning system designed to prevent violence through intimidation. Tom wasn't warning anyone.
He was just looking at a target. Excuse me? Greg sneered, taking a step toward the edge of the mat. He puffed his chest out instinctively, looking down at the slightly smaller man in the jeans. Hey, buddy, no shoes on the mat.
Get back to the bleachers. Tom ignored the command. He stepped over the red boundary line, his canvas sneakers sinking slightly into the foam. He walked directly to Rachel. He knelt beside her.
He didn't ask if she was okay. He was already assessing her. He looked at her pupils, the color of her lips, the red angry friction burn wrapping around her throat like a necklace. Swallow, Tom said quietly. Rachel swallowed hard, wincing.
It hurts. I know, Tom said. He reached out and gently brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. Airway is clear. Take slow breaths through your nose.