This was Declan's domain. He began systematically working to isolate one of Hayes' arms, gripping the rough canvas of the cargo pants to break the instructor's posture. But Hayes wasn't playing the game. He didn't fight for posture. He didn't try to pass the guard.
He simply sank his weight forward, grinding the point of his shoulder directly into the soft tissue of Declan's jaw. The pressure was suffocating. It wasn't a recognized technique. It was just ugly, brutal physics. Declan couldn't breathe through his nose.
He opened his mouth to drag in a ragged breath, and Hayes shifted slightly, driving the shoulder deeper. Panic, tiny and sharp, pricked at the edge of Declan's mind. He bridged his hips violently, throwing his weight to the right to off-balance the older man. Hayes went with the momentum, rolling smoothly over his shoulder. But as they scrambled, Hayes' hand lashed out like a striking snake.
He didn't grab fabric. He grabbed meat and bone. His thick, calloused fingers wrapped around Declan's right wrist. With his other hand, Hayes threaded over Declan's triceps, locking his own wrist. A Kimura grip, a basic, fundamental shoulder lock.
They were tangled in a kneeling position now. Declan instantly recognized the danger. He gritted his teeth and clamped his right hand firmly onto his own shorts, anchoring the arm so Hayes couldn't wrench it behind his back. "Stalemate. " Declan grunted, sweat stinging his eyes. "You can't break this grip. " "I don't care about your grip. " Hayes whispered.
The absolute lack of exertion in his voice was chilling. Instead of pulling the arm, Hayes stepped entirely over Declan's head with his left leg, pinning Declan's face to the mat. He didn't try to rip the arm free. He began to use his entire core, his hips, and his leg strength to slowly, mechanically pry Declan's entire shoulder girdle out of alignment. It was a battle of attrition.
Declan's bicep burned. The tendons in his wrist screamed. He was vastly stronger than Hayes in a vacuum, but he wasn't fighting Hayes's arm. He was fighting Hayes's entire body weight. "Just tap. " A rational voice in Declan's head pleaded.
"You're caught. Tap and reset. " But the ego is a loud, destructive thing. Tapping meant admitting that 10 years of sport training was completely neutralized by a guy wearing sweatpants in a dirty basement. Declan's identity was tied to that black belt. He refused to tap to a simple power lock.
Declan made a choice. It was a stupid, desperate choice. He decided to explode. He released his grip on his own shorts, intending to spin out of the lock dynamically, using his explosive speed to bridge and roll before Hayes could secure the angle. He wrenched his body hard to the left, throwing all his fast-twitch muscle fiber into the escape.
He miscalculated the angle. Hayes didn't let go. He simply held the structure rigid like a steel vise. When Declan exploded, he threw the entire torque of his own body weight against his own trapped humerus. The sound cut through the gym like a gunshot.
Snap. It wasn't a clean pop of a joint dislocating. It was a heavy fibrous tearing, followed by a wet, hollow crack that vibrated in the teeth of everyone watching. Time stopped. Declan collapsed onto the vinyl, his face instantly draining of color, turning a waxy, sickly gray.
His right arm lay pinned under him, but the forearm was pointing outward at a sickening, impossible 45Β° angle. For 1 agonizing second, there was no pain. Just an immense confusing coldness flooding Declan's shoulder. He stared at his arm as if it belonged to someone else. Then the nervous system caught up.
A scream ripped out of Declan's throat. It wasn't a tough manly grunt of discomfort. It was the primal high-pitched shriek of an animal caught in a combine. He rolled onto his side, violently cradling the ruined limb against his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Jesus Christ! " Tyler yelled, stumbling backward and dropping his plastic gun.
A woman named Chloe, a tough local cop who had been watching from the heavy bags, slapped a hand over her mouth. "Call an ambulance. Someone grab his phone. " The class erupted into a chaotic flurry of movement. People were shouting, patting down their gym bags for cell phones, rushing toward Declan who was now hyperventilating, kicking his legs on the mat in pure blinding agony. Through the absolute pandemonium, Hayes stood up.
He didn't look shocked. He didn't look apologetic. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He looked down at Declan writhing on the floor, and then he looked at the terrified faces of his students. Hayes walked away from the injured man.
He walked calmly across the mat, stepping over a discarded water bottle, until he reached the heavy steel fire door that served as the only exit to the basement. He reached out. Clack. He threw the heavy deadbolt into place. He pulled a small brass key from his pocket, locked the cylinder, and then slid the key back into his cargo pants.
He turned around to face the room. "Nobody's calling anyone," Hayes said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the screaming like a scalpel. "Sit down. " The sheer absurdity of the action paralyzed the room. Tyler, who had his phone halfway out of his gym bag, froze.
Chloe took a step toward the door, her police instincts kicking in. "What the hell are you doing, Hayes? His arm is broken. It's shattered. " Declan was gasping now, his breaths coming in short, reedy hitches. The pain was a living, breathing entity wrapped around his collarbone, sinking its teeth into his spine.
Tears of involuntary shock streamed down his face. "Open the door. " he choked out, his voice cracking. "I need a doctor. " Hayes didn't move. He stood in front of the steel door, a human barricade. "You're in an alley behind a bar in downtown Baltimore," Hayes said, his voice entirely devoid of sympathy.
He began to pace again, slow and methodical. "You got jumped. The guy who did this to you is still here. Your arm is broken. You're going into shock.
Your heart rate is at 180 beats per minute. If you don't control your breathing, you will pass out. If you pass out in that alley, you die. " "This isn't an alley," Chloe shouted, her face flushing red with anger. "This is a gym. Unlock the goddamn door, Victor, or I'm arresting you for unlawful restraint. " Hayes stopped and looked at Chloe.
The deadness in his eyes made her take a half step back. "You think this is a game? " Hayes asked her, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "You think you can turn survival on and off like a light switch? You put on the uniform every day, Chloe. You know what happens when the radio dies You know what happens when backup is 10 minutes away and you're bleeding. " He turned his attention back to the writhing black belt on the floor.
"Declan," Hayes commanded. It wasn't a request. Declan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. His right arm was swelling rapidly, the skin pulling taut and shiny over the unnatural bulge of the fractured bone. Declan, look at me.