Chapter One

Sitting in his wheelchair, facing the sunlit window, Nutsbe knew what was coming.

His brain clanged with warning bells, his nerve endings sizzled and sparked. Nutsbe was fighting himself even before he had to fight the guy grabbing the back of his chair.

Nutsbe struggled to keep his muscles loose.

It took a concentrated effort not to clench his abs, not to grip the arms of his chair, not to turn his head and look. But Nutsbe knew that any reflexive motion could take him out of the fight before the fight even began.

He was going to ignore his impulses.

Breathe, he reminded himself. Relax.

Planting a foot on Nutsbe's chair stabilizer to use it as a fulcrum, the backward lurch that followed was always a roller-coaster-belly flight.

As the front wheels lifted from the ground, it was a given that the attacker would jump to the side and out of the way, protecting his knees and shins from the unwieldy metal tumbling toward him. He'd take an extra step back to keep from getting pinned under the flailing weight of a hundred and eighty pounds of gym-hardened muscles sitting in the chair.

When Nutsbe first tried fighting from his wheelchair, he thought the best self-defense move in this circumstance would be to reach over his head and grab his opponent. Using a tight grip to soften the drop, maybe his weight and momentum would drag the attacker down to the ground, where surprise would allow him to get some kind of lock on the guy.

But a human was a human; a brain was a brain.

Few people trained on how to attack someone in a wheelchair. So they jumped back. And that overhead reach always left Nutsbe grabbing at thin air.

With a little practice, Nutsbe figured out how to take advantage of the aggressor's jump. He learned not to fight on the way down. He spent that moment of disequilibrium tucking his chin to protect his head from taking that initial hit, preventing a cracked skull, the concussive effects of a sloshing brain, and whiplash. Spreading his arms wide, hands facing backward, Nutsbe waited for the jolting stop when he smacked the ground, dispersing most of the energy from his fall. The rest of that energy became the momentum he needed to throw his legs toward his head, rolling over his shoulder, bringing himself upright, hands lifted and battle-ready.

That Nutsbe was suddenly sitting up and reaching offensively for the attacker was unexpected.

Surprises were good in a fight. The brain stuttered as it realigned with the new information. It put the other guy back on his heels.

It was only a split second, but sometimes that made all the difference. It would be Nutsbe's best shot at subduing an attack.

Nutsbe grabbed his opponent's pant leg. Curling his fingers into the fabric, he trapped the cloth in his balled fist, preventing the guy's escape. Then, Nutsbe jerked his elbow along his ribcage, dropping the man backward onto the mat. With his opponent's leg tethered, Nutsbe's sparring partner, Chuck, couldn't do his own rolling energy dispersal. He took the full brunt of the hit.

There was no time for self-satisfaction. In a real-world fight, Nutsbe's task was to pay attention to how the assailant reacted to the fall. That initial muscle-memory response to a fight could tell Nutsbe the level of his opponent's combat skills.

Chuck threw his arms wide, curving his head as he tipped over, a trained fighter, not a street rumble junky.

There was good and bad in that. Newbie fighters, with their flailing kicks and wild haymakers, were dangerous in their unpredictability. Knowing that his opponent would be precise and strategic had to come into Nutsbe's calculations as he moved to stop the attack before the stutter of surprise passed and his opponent recalibrated.

Nutsbe grabbed Chuck's foot, twisting the heel, forcing the man onto his stomach. Like with the head, the person who controls the foot controls the opponent's body. As soon as Nutsbe had Chuck on his stomach, he pressed the guy's heel toward his thigh, depriving his opponent of a quick-release tactic. With a hurried shuffle over the pebbled red mat, Nutsbe positioned himself between Chuck's knees to keep him from successfully twisting free.

Chuck's nimbleness and athleticism allowed him to crawl forward when Nutsbe's stress hold would trap most people. Instead, Chuck was able to flip onto his back, putting Nutsbe at a severe disadvantage.

In a split second, Nutsbe had shoved himself into position, sliding either leg around Chuck's thigh and gripping him tightly in place.

As Nutsbe rolled onto his elbow, he rammed Chuck's foot under his armpit, trapping Chuck's ankle. From there, Nutsbe sucked in his stomach, curving forward to make a small space between his chest and Chuck's leg. That was the magic of this move. Once Nutsbe got Chuck's calf fully wrapped into a nice tight hug with his left arm, he could grab that wrist with his right hand. In a street fight, Nutsbe would continue his roll forward. Adding his weight to that joint lock would destroy his opponent's ankle.

Chuck patted Nutsbe twice on the shoulder while saying, "Tap. Tap." A sign that Nutsbe should immediately stop and release.

Boundaries were about safety.

No means no in all civil society.

Billy raced his wheelchair forward, stretching out his hand to make a slashing motion through the air.

The fight was over.

Spinning in his wheelchair, Billy faced the dozen or so students ranging in front of them and said, "From here, class, the only help for Chuck is from a friend. Hopefully, Chuck came to this fight alone. If the aggressor had buddies around the corner, the violence and destruction would notch up considerably. Knock him out, break his ankle, anything it takes to keep it from being a pile-on." Billy turned his head toward Nutsbe. "Over before you even got started." He shook Nutsbe's hand. "Well done."

Nutsbe sat on the mat, his thighs wide for stability. He had detached his below-knee prostheses for this demonstration, and they were across the room, leaning against the wall.

Silicone cups covered Nutsbe's implanted metal bone anchors that held his prostheses on with a quick-latch system, thanks to osseointegration—a way to implant hardware into the bone so an amputee can easily attach their prosthetic legs. Using the silicone covers was a safety step Nutsbe took to protect his sparring partners should he kick out and accidentally make contact.

Chuck popped up to stand and took a few bounces to reset his system. He caught Nutsbe's gaze. "New move."

"You have to stay fresh." Nutsbe grinned up at him. "Stale fighting leads to apathy. That's never good."

"Never." Chuck reached out to shake Nutsbe's hand and then plopped down so they sat side by side.

Looking over the beginner-class students, sitting absolutely still, with their eyes wide and their brows up around the hairline, Nutsbe thought they looked spooked.

Billy must have thought the same because he started with, "No one's going to dump you on the ground today." He maneuvered his chair around to face the class square on. He sat there, gently smiling, giving them a moment to process what had just happened.

Watching someone getting tipped in a chair hit a nerve.

Even knowing it was coming, even having the mats beneath him, even having explicitly asked his fighting partners to push him hard for his own benefit, Nutsbe found that backward drag terrifying.

After a moment, the anxiety settled.

"Since this is your first class, we thought a demonstration was important. My name is Billy. I'm paralyzed from the waist down from a car accident when I was in my teens. That's Chuck." He extended his hand Chuck's way. "We're instructors here. For well over a decade, we've worked with people with disabilities using all manners of assistive apparatus, tools, and weapons. By weapons, I mean both dedicated weapons that you've prepositioned on your body or on your assistive technology but also weapons of convenience—pens, phones, lamps, anything within reach—for self-defense. As you train, we'll keep you as safe as possible but challenge you too." He stopped and turned to Chuck, tag team.

"Billy and I have each been martial arts trainers for around fifteen years. We started training in various martial arts forms when we were kids. We also both have doctorates in physical therapy. Your own medical team will be directing your work with us. So you come as you are. You show up. We figure out your strengths and how to overcome your weaknesses together. You do you. No comparing allowed. Focus on you and your own self-defense and sense of security."

There were head nods and murmurs.

Chuck reached out his hand to indicate Nutsbe. "Our guest playing an attack victim slash guest speaker today is Tad Crushed with Iniquus Security, otherwise known as Nuts-be Crushed." As usual, there was a beat while people put his name together in their minds, and a titter swept over the group. "You want to say something to start us off, Nutsbe?"

Nutsbe gave a wave. "Yeah, Tad or Nutsbe, it's your choice. I go by either one. As you can see, like many of you, I have below-the-knee amputations." He lifted one leg, then the other. "When it comes to self-defense, using my wheelchair has some unique challenges." He laid his hand over his heart. "One of the things that made me feel the most vulnerable when I was first going out in public with my new body structure was the idea that I was an easy target. I've adjusted my thinking. Anyone can be a target." He rocked from hip to hip to find a more comfortable position. "At Iniquus, I work with a team of retired tier-one operators. It seems every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to throw down with them to see how well they'd fare against a Delta or a SEAL. One-on-one?" Nutsbe pulled his chin back and shook his head. "Not well, I promise you. But anyone can get a lucky punch. You lose a tooth, break a jaw, get shoved into a sharp corner, and split open your head. Anyone can find themselves in a tight spot. Even my teammates—some of the most effective hand-to-hand fighters in the world. My best advice? Vigorously avoid a fight. You're here to build some skills in case avoidance becomes impossible one day." Nutsbe signaled Chuck to come around. "Chuck and Billy asked me to go over some basic fighting concepts with you."

Nutsbe laid back down and signaled Chuck to climb on top of him.

"Let's start here with three psychological factors you'll lean on as you train: resilience, perseverance, mental toughness. Those are three attributes that all of you have been developing." Nutsbe added, "Qualities you already have. Now, you can learn to apply them to another skill set."

Chuck settled his hips above Nutsbe's. Immediately, Nutsbe brought his forearms into play, guarding his neck and face.

"Controlling your mind is paramount. When you're flat on the ground with someone on top of you, panic sets in. It's natural. Even after all my training, I feel it. I want to push him off or struggle to get away from him. But what would that serve? I'd only be exhausting myself and benefiting the attacker." He cranked his head around to see the class. "Don't help your attacker." He turned back and gave Chuck a nod to let him know to engage. "Let's see what could happen if I flailed. First, if I take my guard away to push or pull at him or try to get leverage—"

Chuck's fists came in with slow-motion punches to show the holes that Nutsbe was creating as he floundered around. Chuck's fists made light contact with Nutsbe's nose, eyes, throat, and jaw.

"Do you see that?" Nutsbe brought his arms back into guard position. "Now try it."

As Chuck threw a punch, Nutsbe pressed it away and returned to his guard. "If you flail, not only can he get his punches to land, but he can use your momentum to get you to roll."

Chuck lifted up enough so that Nutsbe could turn over.

"Face down on your stomach is a dangerous place to be," Nutsbe said breathlessly as his lungs compressed with Chuck sitting on his back. "A few punches to the head or neck, and you're unconscious or worse."

When Chuck shifted around as he feigned those strikes, Nutsbe had to battle-breathe through the welling panic. After years of training, he still had trouble detaching from the sensation of drowning. "They can wrap your neck and squeeze your carotid. Eleven pounds of pressure, ten seconds, and you'll go night-night."

Chuck moved to put Nutsbe in a sleeper, sending off do-or-die signals in Nutsbe's brain. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, as soon as he felt Chuck's pressure, Nutsbe tapped out. No reason to torture himself for a demo.

Instantly, Chuck flung himself off. And with relief, Nutsbe turned to the side to address the class. They looked every bit as horrified as they had when he was dumped from the chair. Nutsbe thought these demos might be seeding new anxieties. It wouldn't be his tactic for a new class, but he'd trust his friends' years of experience. They had planned things this way on purpose.

Nutsbe pushed himself to a seated position and tapped his hand on his chest. "Fear tightens the lungs, making breathing hard. No air, no good ideas. Fighting without a plan, without training, without a next move increases anxiety—the sense of claustrophobia. It leads to panic." He pointed at the mat where he'd just laid. "I was feeling panic creep up when Chuck got a lock on my throat. For real, here, we're humans. And that's a biological system that's part of our survival DNA. But panic is your enemy. It's exhausting. You make erratic choices. Remember, a fight is a game of strategy. You move, they move. The best moves win. And by win, I mean you get out of the situation. Two points here, TV and movie fights are bunk. The bad news: The human body can't withstand what the script writers put on paper. The good news: Fights in the street last mere seconds, even with trained martial artists, possibly a minute or so. It's fast. And then it's over. Okay? We just need you on the winning end of the whistle. You can do that."

"To be extra clear," Chuck said, coming to his feet and planting his hands on his hips. "You only have one goal in a fight. Survive and move away. Fighting back is about getting free. You're not an avenging angel. You're not trying to punish anyone. You're not showing them a thing or two."

Nutsbe nodded. "Cool, and precise, and in your rearview. Justice happens in court, with a prosecutor managing the battle. Okay?" He glanced up at the clock. "All right then. That's my time. I'm going to leave it to your instructors—also my instructors, so I'm sure I'll see you on the mats." He sent them a grin to show them that this was fun and he hadn't been hurt.

Chuck went to the side of the room to retrieve Nutsbe's prosthetic legs.

"How many fights have you been in, Nutsbe?" a student asked.

"Real-world?" Nutsbe reached for his legs, then focused on clasping them into place. "Zero."

"But you were in the military. Iniquus Security, right?" He pointed toward the logo on Nutsbe's compression shirt. "They only hire ex-deployed military. So before you lost your legs, how many fights?"

"I was in the Air Force. I dropped cruise missiles on the enemy. Personally, I hope and pray I never have to fight. Property? Take it." He stood up and moved back to his wheelchair, setting it upright and sitting down. Nutsbe found it was easier to roll out to his car rather than push his chair along. "The only reason I would fight is to protect my own body or that of someone who needed my help. I've never found myself in either circumstance."

Chuck brought Nutsbe's gym bag over.

"What does this tell me?" Nutsbe balanced it on his lap, pushing the silicon covers into a pocket, then pulling out his gloves to keep his hands clean from wheel filth as he headed back to Headquarters and his meeting with the FBI Joint Task Force. "Two things. One, chances are good you'll never need these skills. Attacks aren't inevitable."

"But you train," the man insisted. "You do expect it."

"Point two, I have found that when I carry a first aid kit in my car, I never need it. It's at the times when I leave the damned kit on the kitchen table to re-stock the bandages that melted from the heat in my trunk that I come across an accident or what have you. Put another way," Nutsbe moved a hand to his chest, "in my life, I've found that being prepared is its own kind of insurance policy against the event ever taking place."

The guy tipped his chin up a little higher.

"Personal observation," Nutsbe said. "My philosophy both at work and in my personal life is prepare and hope like hell you're never put to the test."