Clayton didn't backpedal. He stepped into the kick, catching the brunt of it on his knee instead of the soft muscle of his thigh. Pain flared, dull and distant, but Trent let out a sharp hiss as his shin collided with solid bone.
Before Trent could retract his leg and reset his footing, Clayton moved. It wasn't the flashy, bouncing movement of a prize fighter. It was the explosive, terrifying violence of a man who had survived room-to-room combat in Fallujah and Ramadi.
Clayton closed the distance in a single, devastating step. He didn't throw a textbook cross. He threw a short, brutal elbow strike that bypassed Trent's high guard entirely, crashing into the side of the younger man's jaw.
Crack.
The sound was sharp, like a dry branch snapping in the winter cold. Trent's eyes rolled back. His legs turned to liquid, and he crumpled onto the foam mats, out cold before his shoulder hit the floor.
The three minutes had lasted exactly four seconds.
The Iron Horse Tavern went dead silent. The jukebox seemed inappropriately loud in the vacuum of human noise. The crowd stared, mouths agape, as the invincible MMA prodigy lay twitching slightly on the duct-taped foam.
Clayton didn't celebrate. He didn't flex or roar to the crowd. He merely looked down at Trent, ensuring the boy was breathing, and then turned back to the edge of the mat. He sat down heavily and began pulling his work boots back onto his feet, tying the laces with the same slow, methodical movements he used to tie down a tarp.