Chapter 8 - Four Seconds in Purgatory
Derek’s vision was beginning to vignette. The edges of the gym—the kettlebell racks, the American flag, the faces of the soldiers watching in absolute silence—were fading into a fuzzy, pulsing tunnel of gray. His lungs burned. His throat felt as though it were being crushed beneath a hydraulic press.
He realized, with sudden, bowel-loosening clarity, that Cole was not going to let him go simply because he was in trouble.
Cole smoothly transitioned his weight off the throat, sliding into full mount. He sat directly across Derek’s hips, pinching his knees tight against Derek’s ribs, completely eliminating any possibility of a bridge-and-roll escape.
Derek drew in one ragged, desperate breath of air—*GAAASP!*—and before he could exhale, Cole’s right arm snaked around the back of his neck.
It was the exact same submission.
A high-elbow guillotine choke, transitioned from the top, locking Derek’s cervical spine in a vise between Cole’s thick forearm and his chest. Cole reached his left hand over Derek’s shoulder, clamping his own bicep, locking the figure-four grip into place with a mechanical finality that sounded like a heavy iron gate slamming shut.
Derek’s eyes bulged with pure, unadulterated panic.
He knew the geometry of this choke better than anyone in the room. He knew that when properly applied with this specific angle of spinal flexion, the carotids were occluded within two seconds, and the airway was completely closed.
Derek didn't hesitate. He didn't try to fight the hands. He didn't try to buck his hips.
He lifted his right hand and slammed his palm repeatedly against the black mat.
*SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!*
"Tap!" Derek choked out, the word escaping as a high-pitched, desperate squeak. "Tap! TAP!"
Cole did not let go.
The room froze. A collective gasp rippled through the spectators.
"He’s tapping!" someone yelled from the back.
Cole’s grip did not loosen by a single millimeter. If anything, his hips sank deeper, his chest driving forward, compressing Derek’s chin directly into his own sternum. Cole’s face was inches from Derek’s ear.
"One," Cole whispered.
Derek’s eyes went wild with raw, primal terror. His hands left the mat and began clawing frantically at Cole’s wrists, his fingernails digging into Cole’s skin, scratching, tearing, trying to pry open the immovable vise of muscle and bone.
"Two," Cole said, his voice flat, steady, an inexorable clock marking the seconds of judgment.
Derek’s legs began to bicycle in the air, his knees kicking wildly, his entire body convulsing in a desperate physiological fight against the encroaching darkness. The skin of his face turned from deep crimson to an unnatural, dusky blue. The veins on his forehead looked as though they were about to rupture through the epidermis.
"Three," Cole said.
Derek’s hands lost their strength. His fingers slid off Cole’s forearms. His head slumped backward against the canvas. His eyes rolled into the back of his skull, his mouth hanging open in a silent, paralyzed scream.
"Wait, Cole! That’s enough!" Sarah cried out from the edge, her voice cracking with emotion, not wanting her brother to commit murder in front of forty witnesses.
"Four," Cole stated.
The fourth second elapsed.
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Cole Bennett unlocked his fingers, retracted his arms, and smoothly stood up.
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