The last time Kyle had seen Adams, he'd been in court. In a suit. Hunched over like he was trying to make himself look small.
Not anymore. Now he was standing to his full height in an orange prison jumpsuit, tied at the waist, and a white undershirt—sleeveless, like his biceps were too big for mere sleeves to contain.
What had his Muay Thai instructor taught him about breaking grapples?
Fight the hands, avoid the cinch—Too late for that.
Break the grip—Adams' arms were like iron bars, there was no breaking free easily.
Knee strike to the ribs? Kinda relied on feet that touched the floor, Kyle's did not at this moment.
Elbow strike to the head? Illegal move, instant disqualification in a tournament. But there wasn't exactly a referee around right now…
Adams' eyes narrowed. He pulled his fist back, ready to strike…
No time to think. Sorry, Andrea…
