He felt completely humiliated. A dirt-poor old farmer had
just dumped him on his back. Big Eli stood exactly where
he had been. He wiped a streak of blood from the corner of
his mouth with the back of his greasy thumb, looking at the
red smear on his dark skin.
He felt the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart in his
chest. He didn't want to be here. He hated the adrenaline
flooding his veins; it felt like poison.
"You're dead!" Trent hissed, shifting his stance. He dropped
his hands slightly, preparing for a takedown. He was going
to take the farmer to the ground, mount him, and end the
humiliation violently.
Uig Eli sighed, a short, ragged breath. He rolled his
broad shoulders, feeling the joints pop. He stopped
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Chapter 9
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trying to look small.
He squared his hips. His stance shifted from the awkward
slouch of a tired old farmer to a grounded, perfectly
balanced base. He didn't raise his fists like a boxer; he kept
his hands low, open, and relaxed.
Trent charged, fanning a left hook and shooting for Big
Eli’s waist. He expected the old man to sprawl, panic, or
stumble backward clumsily. Instead, the humid air of the
pole barn dissolved.
Big Eli's mind snapped back to a steaming rice paddy in
'69. The noise of the tavern faded, replaced by the phantom
whir of Huey blades. The survival instincts that had kept
him breathing when his platoon was ambushed flared to
life. As Trent drove in, Big Eli simply pivoted. He guided
Trent’s momentum past him with a heavy, calloused hand
against the younger man’s neck.
"Lfighter could recover, Big Eli’s massive hand clamped onto
his wrist with the immovable grip of a vice.
With a swift, brutal torque that completely defied his age,
Eli twisted Trent’s arm behind his back and kicked the
back of Trent’s knee. The cocky fighter went down hard,
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Chapter 10
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face-first into the duct-taped mats.
Big Eli dropped a knee into the center of Trent’s spine,
pinning him to the ground. He didn't crank the arm. He