You know… just to say thank you.
I hear them before I see them.
The sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Grunts. Curses. Bodies hitting concrete…and water.
“Much better,” Tank says, his voice carrying easily through the air. “Don’t lose focus, no matter how pissed off you get. The second you lose focus, they gain an opening.”
There’s a splash, followed by a string of colorful language.
“If they get an opening,” he continues calmly, “it’s not just your life in danger, it’s the lives of the people you’re protecting.”
I slow my steps as I reach the edge of the pool area.
Tank stands at the center of the chaos, shirtless, arms crossed, muscles flexing as he watches two of the prospects circle each other. His expression is focused. Controlled.
One of the prospects lunges too early.
Tank moves fast, grabs him, pivots, and tosses him straight into the pool without breaking stride.
“Again,” he orders. “And this time, think.”
Laughter breaks out from the others watching.
Tank gestures with two fingers, dismissing the pair currently sparring. They step back immediately, breathing hard.
“You two,” he says, pointing to the next prospects in line. “Up.”
The men move to take their place.
Tank rolls his shoulders once, loosening his neck like this is nothing more than a warm-up.
“Attack me,” he orders.
They hesitate.
His jaw tightens. “And if you don’t give me everything you’ve got,” he adds calmly, “I’ll throw you in the pool,andyou get a week of one-on-one training with Foster.”
Whatever that means, it’s enough.
Both men go pale.
Their eyes widen, and they launch themselves at Tank like their lives depend on it.
I swallow.
Tank doesn’t retreat.
He moves.
Fast. Precise. Controlled.
One prospect swings too wide. Tank ducks under the punch, grabs the man’s wrist, pivots, and uses his own momentum against him…lifting, twisting…the man hits the water with a loud splash.
Tank doesn’t even look back.
“More,” he orders the second prospect. “My grandma fights better than you.”
