Clayton easily swam his arms inside Trent’s desperate push. He didn’t rain down blows. He didn’t try to smash Trent’s face into the foam. He just flattened himself out, grinding his stubbled chin into Trent’s eye socket, creating a horrific abrasive friction.
Clayton slid his left arm under Trent’s neck, securing the back of the collar. He walked his right hand across the opposite side of Trent’s throat, grabbing a handful of the heavy board short fabric near the shoulder. It was an Ezekiel choke modified for bare hands and street clothes. Clayton dropped his forehead to the mat next to Trent’s ear and squeezed.
He didn’t yank. He didn’t jerk. He applied the pressure with the slow terrifying inevitability of an industrial vice. Trent’s carotid arteries were pinched shut against his own windpipe.
Underneath him, Trent thrashed like a netted shark. He bucked his hips, kicking his legs wildly into the air. His hands tore at Clayton’s forearms, his manicured fingernails digging deep half-moons into Clayton’s flesh, drawing tiny beads of blood. Clayton didn’t even blink.
He just held the pressure, his breathing slow, rhythmic, and perfectly controlled through his nose. “three seconds,” Clayton whispered into Trent’s ear, his voice devoid of anger, malice, or triumph. It was a simple statement of biological fact. Trent’s face turned a deep mottled purple.
