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One of the men ambled over and took a seat next to her.
Shit. I’m going to have to say it. Stupid, stupid Taskforce humor.
    She glanced at the man on the barstool, then back at the bartender. Swallowing hard, she said, “Maybe you can help? I’m looking for an inbred redneck with shit for brains?”
    She immediately knew neither was the contact when both of their eyes went wide, no recognition of the bona fides at all.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. It just popped out.”
    The man on the barstool stood up. “You think that’s fucking funny, cunt?”
    “No, no,” Jennifer said, her mind racing to spit out an excuse. “I was told I was playing a prank by a guy outside. He said you’d laugh. I’ll go get—”
    Before she could finish her sentence, the man punched her hard above the right temple, snapping her head back and causing an explosion of light. He clamped both hands onto her neck and began to squeeze, bending her over backward. The strike rattled her for a split second, long enough to feel her windpipe start to crush. She felt a sliver of panic and uselessly tried to pry his hands away. She began thrashing violently, the fear growing until it blotted out any logical thought. Realizing she was about to pass out, she forced the panic away and focused on what she needed to do.
    Rotating to the right, she raised her arm and brought it straight down against his elbow joints, breaking the stiff-arm. Sliding forward, she used her weight to fold his arms, getting within striking range of her attacker. She began to see sparks of light, the man’s grip relentless. She raised her right leg, lodging her foot against the top of the patella on his left knee. She shoved outward with all of her might, praying it would crack the hold.
    The strike broke the support of the man’s knee, triggering it to buckle and causing him to blessedly let go of her neck as he fell off balance to the floor.
    Jennifer fell with him, scrambling to wrap up his wounded knee in a leg lock. She grabbed his ankle and brought it to her chest while extending his leg. Rotating her legs over his body, she leaned backward, thrusting forward with her hips against his knee while twisting the ankle, desperately trying to damage him enough so that he couldn’t catch her when she ran. If done right, she knew he wouldn’t be catching anything without help for the rest of his life, but she was out of position. She couldn’t get the leverage to break something and was about to be in a stalemate, unable to let go but also unable to hurt him. She heard him yelling from the pain and slapping the ground over and over, the noise finally penetrating her survival instincts.
    Oh my God.
He’s tapping out. He’s Taskforce.
She let go and warily rose. The man slid backward, remaining on the ground.
    She backed up a step, then turned to run out of the bar, only to be confronted by the remaining five men, all advancing toward her.
    In the room next door, I lost control when Jennifer got whacked in the temple, jumping up and yelling at Turbo.
    “What the hell is that? You know the rules. No head strikes to the candidate. What’s he doing?”
    Turbo backed up, recognizing that I’d kick his ass all over the room in the next few seconds. No question of whether I could or not.
    “Whoa. Wait. I know… Cleary just gets emotional. He’s a little pissed to be supporting this. You know head shots happen every single evolution.”
    I advanced on him, my fists balled up. “Not on the first fucking punch. Maybe in the heat of rolling around, but he deliberately hit her.”
    Knuckles yelled from behind me, “Let it go, Pike. Don’t stop the evolution. She’s doing okay.”
    Still glaring at Turbo, I said, “What do you mean?”
    “He tapped out.”
    Turbo and I both said, “What?” and ran over to the monitor.
    I saw the remaining five men advancing on her and went ballistic again. “What the fuck are they doing? Jesus Christ!”
    The house of pain