For thirty seconds, the gym watched a massive corporal throw bombs at empty air.
Captain Miller sat entirely still in the bleachers, his eyes tracking Hayes’s footwork. He leaned slightly toward Silva, who had stepped to the edge of the mat to referee.
Vance was breathing heavily now, his frustration overriding his strategy. He swung wildly, leaving his ribs exposed.
Hayes stepped in. She drove the heel of her palm straight into his solar plexus, exhaling sharply with the strike.
Vance folded forward, the wind violently expelled from his lungs. Before he could recover, Hayes clamped her left hand on the back of his head, driving his face downward, while her right arm shot under his armpit, securing his far shoulder. She snapped her hips backward, throwing him in a flawless, spinning judo toss.
Vance hit the mat flat on his back. The foam shuddered.
Panic flashed in his eyes. He realized instantly he was no longer fighting a peer. He was fighting someone operating on a completely different psychological plane.
Desperate, Vance rolled hard, trying to power out of her top control. He managed to get to his knees, throwing an elbow blindly backward.
Hayes trapped the elbow. In one fluid, seamless motion, she rolled backward onto the mat, pulling Vance’s trapped arm with her. She wrapped her long, powerful legs tightly around his neck and shoulder, locking her right foot under her left knee.
A flawless triangle choke.
Vance realized the danger immediately. He tried to stand, aiming to pick her up and slam her against the mat to break the hold—an illegal and dangerous move.
Hayes recognized the shift in his hips. Before he could elevate her, she hooked her right arm beneath his heavily damaged left leg, anchoring him to the ground. She pulled his head down with both hands, simultaneously squeezing her thighs together, cutting off the carotid arteries on both sides of his neck.
Vance’s face turned bright red, then rapidly darkened to a deep purple. He thrashed his free arm wildly, trying to pry her legs apart, but the leverage was geometrically perfect. He was trying to pry open a steel vice with his bare hands.
The gym was completely silent. Nobody mocked Hayes now. The only sound was Vance’s desperate choking breaths and the squeak of his boots against the mat.
Ten seconds passed.
Vance’s eyes rolled back slightly. His thrashing slowed. His heavy arm went limp.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His hand slapped the mat weakly before falling still.
Hayes released the lock instantly. She rolled backward, sliding smoothly to her feet. She stepped back and returned to a parade-rest posture on the edge of the mat.
Vance collapsed entirely, gasping for air, clutching his throat as he lay on his back. Coram and another soldier rushed forward to check on him, their faces pale.
Staff Sergeant Silva stepped into the center of the mat. He didn't call the match. The winner was undeniable. He turned toward the bleachers and stood at attention.
Captain Miller stood up slowly. He looked from the gasping corporal on the floor to the quiet, perfectly composed sergeant standing on the edge of the mat.
“Well, First Sergeant,” Captain Miller said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent gym. “You told me you had found your replacement. I was skeptical.”