“You create space by breaking the hold, not by retreating.” I grab her right wrist. Hard. “Now you’re caught. Pull.”
She pulls. She’s strong for a civilian—yoga muscles, maybe runner’s endurance—but she pulls straight back. It’s instinct. It’s also wrong.
I hold her fast. She tugs, grunting with effort. Her boots slip on the pine needles.
“You can’t out-muscle me. Physics is against you. I have eighty pounds on you, all muscle, and better leverage.”
“So what do I do?” She’s panting, frustrated.
“Use the mechanics of the hand.” I rotate her wrist to show her the grip. “The thumb is the weak point. The fingers are strong; the thumb is isolated. You don’t pull away from the hand; you rotate against the thumb.”
I show her the motion. The twist. The sharp jerk.
“Again.”
I grab her.
She twists. Fails. I hold on.
“Again.”
She twists. Slips. Fails.
“Focus. Rotate against my thumb joint.”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder. If I’m a Phoenix contractor, you’re already zipped in a body bag. Again.”
She glares at me. Good. Anger is fuel.
She tries again. This time, she snaps her hip into it. A sharp, violent rotation.
My grip breaks.
“Good,” I say. “Again.”
We do it twenty times. Thirty. Her wrist is turning red. She doesn’t complain. She just sets her jaw and resets.
“Okay,” I say. “Phase two. Body holds.”
“You mean hugging?”
“I mean choking.”
I step behind her. “Most attacks on a target your size come from behind. Surprise. Domination. They want to control your head.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to wrap my arm around your throat. Do not panic. You have four seconds before the blood flow cuts off and you pass out.”
“Four seconds. Great.”
“I’m going to do it for real. If you don’t break it, you go to sleep.”
Her eyes widen. “Diego?—”
“Halo,” I correct. “Diego isn’t here.”
