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leg up and connecting hard. Her knee hit an athletic supporter. He closed his legs on her foot, trapping it. Joan dropped the knife in her pinned hand and grabbed his shirt. Then she let herself fall onto her back and flipped him over her head, her free leg planted on his chest.
    The intruder released her wrist. Joan rolled onto all fours, still in attack mode. Before he could get up, she struck with the knife, aiming for the neck.
    He saw the blow coming and moved to block it. The swing was deflected, but she still managed to bury the blade two inches into his shoulder. She released the knife and scampered for the front door.
    “Joan? I really think you’re overreacting.”
    Max, coming into the house.
    “Max!” She ran right into him, yanking at his arm. “Come on!”
    Max grabbed her, tried to hold her back. “You need to calm down.”
    This was the wrong time for talk. They needed to get out of here.

    “There’s a—”
    That’s all she got out. The intruder had pulled the steak knife from his shoulder and flung himself at Max, plunging it into his back. Max dropped to his knees. Joan shoved the intruder, but he backhanded her across the forehead, sending her sprawling onto the driveway just a few feet away from Max’s Lexus. The car was running, the headlights on.
    Phone, she thought. Call for help. She tugged the door open and slammed it closed, hitting the lock button. She looked around for Max’s cell. It wasn’t there.
    “Dammit!” Joan looked out the window. The intruder was hunched over Max, working on him with the steak knife. She couldn’t tell if Max was dead or alive, but then she saw it; a feeble twitching in his hands.
    Joan leaned on the horn. The intruder stopped his attack and stared. Joan opened the window. “Leave him alone!”
    “Is this your boyfriend, Joan?” The intruder grinned. “Handsome devil. But I can fix that.”
    He began to cut away at Max’s face.
    Joan thought about hitting the gas, running into him, but it would kill Max too. She clenched her teeth. Fight or flight, Joanie? Fight or flight?
    Joan DeVilliers got out of the car.
    The intruder stared up and her, his eyes widening. He let go of Max’s hair and stepped over him.
    “My, you are a brave one, aren’t you?”
    Joan pushed aside the fear and slowed her breathing. She didn’t get to be a black belt taking a correspondence course. Joan could fight, and she could win. This guy was above her weight class, but she’d beaten men before. Joan planted her bare feet on the driveway and centered herself.
    The man moved well, liquid and flowing. Like a snake, Joan thought. He was smiling and confident, but that could work to Joan’s advantage. So far, she’d been reacting out of fear. He was underestimating her. If she stayed focused, she’d have a chance.
    Time slowed down, as it often did when she was fighting. Sound seemed to disappear, and her opponent became sharper, clearer.
    Instead of treating him as a threat, she mentally divided him into different strike points. Joan could break boards with her hands and feet. Bones weren’t much thicker.
    He came in on her left, feinting with a hook and then roundhousing with his right. Joan slipped the punch, spun, and landed a solid reverse kick in his face, dead center. She straightened her leg on impact, hitting him with all of her hundred and fifteen pounds.
    It sent the intruder sprawling onto his back, his head bouncing on the asphalt, his nose a mashed tomato. Like many tournament fights, it was over in a heartbeat. Joan had knocked him out, cold.
    For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Her brain told her to finish it, go for the death blow that she’d practiced so often but always pulled short in matches. But could she? Could she actually kill an unconscious man?
    Joan approached cautiously. His eyes were closed, and he looked more pathetic than threatening. She knelt on his chest, raising her fist, aiming for the neck...
    And couldn’t do it.
    A moan,