Page 65 of Forever We Fall

I can read Arlo’s movements. Before he does it, I know he’s going low. I’m a trained wrestler, and he’s not. Neither is his uncle. Thank goodness.

As his uncle gets insanely close with his big arms wide and his shoulders down, Arlo drops into a low crouch and launches all his weight at his attacker’s calf, executing a perfect low single.

On the mats, a wrestler will press in just below the knee and push it sideways, forcing the opponent to the ground ‘cause knees don’t bend sideways.

We’re not on the mats. This is not for points. This is for freedom.

A crack splits the night as the tendons and cartilage holding the horrible man’s knee in place give way.

The big man screams and tumbles sideways to the ground. I don’t worry about the sound drawing attention. Arlo has told me too many stories about his cries for help and how they all went unanswered. Tonight, they don’t. Tonight, we answer.

Momentum and weight, along with Arlo’s death grip on his leg, fold the appendage in a wholly unnatural state.

Two years ago, a kid broke his leg at a tournament on the mat next to mine. The sound made my stomach curl. Now, it’s the sound of victory.

No matter how short-lived.

“You fucking shite!” he yells, reaching for Arlo, who scrambles back just in time to evade his uncle’s grip. But the big man lunges, using his hand and one good leg.

He catches Arlo’s ankle, which throws him off balance. My friend tips to the side and falls onto his ass.

The ruthless man crawls up his body, snarling, “I’m going to fucking kill you for this. You worthless piece of trash.”

I launch from under the bed in one swift motion, grab the chain, and loop it around his uncle’s neck before he’s even registered the obnoxious rattling.

“What the—” My shoe planted on the back of his neck cuts off his confusion.

I’m careful not to break his fucking neck. Though I’d love nothing more than to have the honor. This is not my show. I hold enough pressure that when he thrashes, it doesn’t release my grip on the chain or the back of his head.

Pathetic gasps stumble from between his lips.

Arlo shoves his way out from beneath his uncle.

“Get the tarp,” I bark, just to have the satisfaction of scaring the man who clings to consciousness.

His body jerks. His hands grasp at the chain, tugging.

If he’d only rotate, he could free himself. But panic is a deadly thing. It makes the smartest among us do stupid shit. And this man is nowhere near smart. If he were, he’d have realized how precious Arlo is and would have treated him accordingly.

His limbs go slack. I hold a little bit longer, just in case.

The flap of the tarp pulls my gaze around to where Arlo methodically spreads the twelve-by-twelve black fabric.

Reluctantly, I loosen my hold on the chain, and when I’m sure he’s out, I remove my foot when all I want to do is stomp hard.

With furtive glances and nods, we move him to the center of the protective square. We pull his hands behind his back, weave the chain around them, and lock them in place. We do the same to his feet and rig a nice hogtie between them. Moving his shattered knee rouses several grunts and groans from the lump of shit.

It takes another full minute until he wiggles and thrashes in an attempt to get free.

Arlo stands beside me in a stone form. His gaze never leaves his uncle. As if he doesn’t believe the chains will hold him. As if he’s still scared of the man on the floor.

When I laugh, the demon stills.

“What, you thought we left?” I step around to his front so he can see me. “No. We’re not done just yet. It won’t be long, though.” I head over to the bag.

“If you think this changes anything, you’re wrong. Sure, you got me tonight, but I’ve had you so many times,” he grouses. “I’ll get you again.”

At that, Arlo walks until his feet are inches from his uncle’s face, and he crouches low.

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