Somehow I land in a crouch, but I don’t have time to plant my weight. Instead of springing on top of my attacker, I collapse on him. My armored chest hits his boots, the side of my face hits his butt, and my arms close like pinchers around his midsection before he can twist around.

Now that I’m on top of him, I can feel how small he is under the padded snow suit. Jewett is a short, wiry guy, but something feels wrong. My arms have closed around a narrower waist than I expected.

Not that my brain has time to process this information. My wrestling partner manages to glance the butt of the shotgun off my forehead. There is nothing like a hunk of synthetic fibers knocking your skull to chase stray thoughts from the mind.

Meanwhile he’s trying to worm his way out of the grip I have around his waist. I feel clothing moving, a belt yielding, snow pants coming loose.

The flashlight, mounted to the barrel, causes the beam to shake—a strobe light in the trees.

I let go with my right hand, make a fist, and deliver a punch to where I hope one of the bastard’s kidneys is.

The audible expulsion of breath tells me I hit the mark.

He twists before I can drive my fist into his kidney again. Somehow I find myself on my back in a desperate attempt to keep him from slipping free. He presses his bony ass against my sternum while he stamps his boots on my shins.

Under normal circumstances, I would be winning this bout, no contest. I have practiced hours for this scenario, both at the criminal justice academy and with Dani, who holds a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I have the advantages of size and strength, and on the ground, brute force matters more than martial artistry. Because if there is one iron rule in hand-to-hand combat, it’s never let a bigger opponent pin you.

Jewett, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have been trained in any fighting style. He’s just slippery as an eel and determined as hell.

I arch my shoulders and rock from side to side—Dani calls the move “bridging”—trying to roll us both over so I’m on top again. Finally I push up with my hips: the kind of pelvic thrust people do in booty-building classes.

But the little bastard drives an elbow at my face. It doesn’t hit, but it causes me to shut my eyes and lose focus. Worse, it allows him to brace the butt of the gun against the ground.

So instead of rolling on top of him, I roll off his body altogether. He might as well have thrown me clear.