Chapter 6 - Ninety Seconds
The crowd started building before sunrise.
By eight, the bleachers were half full.
By nine, senior officers had arrived.
By ten, I noticed three civilians in dark suits sitting behind the command section.
Pentagon observers.
Briggs saw them too.
Of course he did.
He loved stages.
My first opponent was Sergeant Kellerman, a powerful infantryman with excellent balance and no interest in theatrics.
“Nothing personal.”
“Good.”
The whistle blew.
He attacked hard.
I gave ground once, changed levels, trapped his arm, and took his back.
Ninety seconds later, he tapped.
“Clean work.”
“Same.”
From across the field, Briggs watched without smiling.
Corporal Diaz was fast and technically sharp. He caught me in a scramble and nearly turned me.
For ten seconds, all I could hear was my own breathing and the crowd.
When I stood, my forearms were burning.
Briggs clapped slowly from the edge of the mat.
“Cute.”
I ignored him.
Staff Sergeant Wade Mercer had replaced another soldier less than an hour before the match.
“Who approved the substitution?” I asked Captain Mason.
“Matter of availability.”
“Whose availability?”
His jaw tightened.
“Get on the mat, Mitchell.”
Mercer hit me hard in the ribs thirty seconds into the match.
Pain flashed white through my side.
The crowd reacted.
Mercer paused.
“You good?”
He was not Briggs.
He was just competing.
“I’m good.”
We restarted.
I changed angle, hooked his arm, and forced him to the ground.
When I stood, he leaned close.
“Sorry about the ribs.”
“Legal strike.”
He nodded.
Then he added, “Briggs told Mason you had a weak right side.”
My eyes snapped to his.
“What?”
Mercer looked past me toward Briggs.
“He said you were hiding an old injury.”
I had never told Briggs about my ribs.
Because I did not have an old rib injury.
May you like
Someone had given him access to my medical intake.
And suddenly this was bigger than a rigged bracket.
