In a flash of desperate, pure malice, Miller didn’t step forward. He launched himself off his good leg, throwing a reckless, banned maneuver in a training bout—an upward, unprotected flying knee aimed directly at Thorne’s face.
It was an illegal strike. Highly dangerous. Capable of shattering a jaw or fracturing a skull.
The crowd screamed a warning. “Watch out!”
Thorne’s eyes barely widened.
He didn’t have time to dodge completely. The strike was too fast, fueled by the terrifying adrenaline of a desperate man. But Thorne had just enough time to react. He turned his head slightly and raised his left shoulder, tucking his chin tightly into his collarbone.
The heavy bone of Miller’s knee clipped the side of Thorne’s cheekbone and glanced violently off his shoulder.
The impact sent a sickening crack echoing through the room. Thorne staggered backward, sliding two feet across the mat. His head snapped back, and he dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder.
Vance instantly bolted away from the wall, the silver whistle finally coming up to his lips. “Miller, you son of a bitch, you’re done!” Vance roared.
But before Vance could blow the whistle, Thorne held up a single, steady hand.
“Hold,” Thorne said.
Vance froze.
Thorne remained on one knee for two seconds. The entire gym fell into a horrified, breathless silence. They all thought the older Sergeant was seriously hurt. They thought the cheap shot had worked.
Thorne slowly stood up. He lowered his hand from his shoulder. There was a dark red welt forming on his cheek, a physical mark from the brutal, illegal hit.
Thorne turned his head slowly, cracking his neck left, then right.
He looked at Miller. The flat, calm, analytical gaze was gone.
What replaced it was something terrifying. A dark, absolute stillness that froze the blood in Miller’s veins. It was the look of a man who had stopped treating this like a sparring match, and started treating it like a threat elimination.
“You wanted to fight, Miller,” Thorne said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the lethal gravity of a loaded weapon. “We’re fighting.”
Chapter 3: The True Rank
For the first time since he had been assigned to the battalion, Jax Miller felt pure, unadulterated fear.
Thorne didn’t wait for Miller to close the distance. He didn’t wait to counter. Thorne advanced. He moved with a speed that defied his age and size, a fluid, horrifyingly efficient stride that ate up the mat in half a second.
Miller threw a panic-driven right cross, hoping to keep the Sergeant away.