Before the younger man could even register the impact, Big Eli dropped his immense weight onto Trent's back, pinning his hips to the floor. Eli didn't strike him. He didn't rain down blows. He simply locked his massive arms under Trent’s shoulders in a half-nelson, lacing his fingers together with the grip strength of a man who had spent a lifetime wrestling rusted machinery and stubborn cattle.
Trent thrashed wildly, bucking and twisting, his aerosol scent suffocated by the smell of diesel and damp earth radiating off the old farmer. It was like trying to buck off an anvil. Big Eli lay heavy, breathing steadily through his nose, his eyes fixed on the cracked face of the digital clock on the far wall.
Forty-five seconds left.
Chapter 12: Three Minutes
“Get off me!” Trent roared, his voice muffled by the foam mat. He managed to free one arm and blindly swung backward, his knuckles scraping harmlessly against Eli's thick canvas overalls.