“Understood,” Vance growled.
Silva looked at Hayes. “Understood?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
Silva raised his hand. Vance immediately dropped into a fighting stance.
Hayes noted the shift instantly. His right foot was forward. His right arm was extended. He had switched to a southpaw stance, exactly as she had predicted. A low murmur went through the crowd as Vance’s friends recognized the strategic shift. He was throwing out his entire documented playbook to nullify her notes.
A cruel, confident smile touched the corner of Vance’s mouth.
Silva dropped his hand. “Fight.”
Vance charged.
Chapter 3: The Breakdown
Vance did not throw the heavy right hook. Instead, he opened with a blindingly fast double-leg takedown attempt, diving low to weaponize his massive weight and tackle Hayes directly to the floor. It was a purely aggressive move, designed to crush her under him before she could calculate an angle.
The crowd inhaled sharply.
But Hayes was not where she was supposed to be.
Because Vance had switched to southpaw, his right foot was forward, which meant his explosive drive had to generate from his left leg—the leg with the bad knee he had been protecting for three years. The knee she had kicked the day before.
As he lunged, the slight hesitation in his back leg cost him a fraction of a second. It was all Hayes needed.
She sprawled, dropping her hips violently toward the mat, driving her heavy legs backward while framing her forearms hard against his shoulders. The momentum of Vance's charge drove them both to the floor, but Hayes remained on top, using her torso to flatten his head against the blue foam.
Vance cursed, immediately wrapping his thick arms around her waist to muscle his way back to his feet. He heaved upward with raw, explosive power.
Hayes didn't fight his strength. She let him stand, but as he rose, she slid her right arm around the back of his neck, securing a deep collar tie.
They stood locked in the center of the mat, chests heaving. Vance was already sweating profusely, burning massive amounts of oxygen to power his heavy muscles. Hayes was breathing through her nose, her face a mask of total concentration.
“You can’t write this down,” Vance grunted, trying to pry her arm off his neck.
“I don’t need to,” Hayes replied softly.
Vance broke the grip and threw a heavy left cross. Hayes slipped to the outside, parrying his wrist with her hand. She slapped the inside of his bicep, disrupting the strike, and stepped away, returning to a neutral stance.
Vance pressed forward. He threw a combination—jab, cross, sweeping leg kick. He was mixing his martial arts, pulling moves he had seen on television or learned in basic classes, completely abandoning his core strengths just to prove her notebook wrong.
Hayes simply evaded. She stepped offline, ducked, and parried. She was entirely defensive, but her defense was a suffocating pressure. She didn’t look frightened; she looked like a mechanic diagnosing a failing engine.