Chapter 3 - THE CONTROLLED ROLL
Bull, misinterpreting Alexis's absolute quiet as helplessness, decided to double down for the amusement of his young Marines.
"I said, get out of my bar!" Bull roared, launching his heavy right palm directly into Alexis's left shoulder, intending to shove her backward into the corner of a heavy pine dining table to pin her down.
This time, Alexis didn't absorb the force.
The instant Bull's hand made contact with her jacket, Alexis shifted her hips back three inches, dissipating ninety percent of the kinetic energy. Instead of falling helplessly, she allowed her body to roll with the momentum, tucking her shoulder as she hit the oak floorboards. She executed a smooth, silent tactical roll across the wood, completely clearing the sharp iron edge of the pine table, and popped back up onto her feet ten feet away near the brass-railed footrest of the bar.
THUD.
The sound of her boots hitting the floor was crisp, clean, and perfectly balanced.
The room’s atmosphere shifted instantly.
The loud laughter from the young Marines in the corner booth cut off mid-chuckle. The mocking smirks on their faces vanished, replaced by sudden, uncomfortable silence. Even a green private straight out of boot camp could recognize that the roll she had just executed wasn't an accident—it was high-level evasive movement honed through years of combat conditioning.
Bull turned around, his face flushing a deeper shade of crimson as he realized he had failed to knock her off her feet.
"That's twice," Bull growled, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists, his heavy shoulders coiling like iron springs.
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Alexis stood by the bar rail, wiping another thin trace of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face remained completely serene, her breathing slow and measured—in through the nose for four seconds, out through the mouth for four seconds.
She shifted her left foot two inches back, anchoring her weight into the oak floorboards. The movement was tiny, almost invisible to a civilian, but one of the older Marines sitting at the adjacent booth—a buck sergeant with a combat action ribbon—straightened up instantly in his chair, his eyes going wide as he recognized the classic stance of an operator preparing to break a man’s jaw.
