Page 132 of The Most Dangerous Games

Hannah gets loud here.

As taught.

Even being bear-hugged this way by Jack, she screams at the top of her lungs, startling him enough that he weakens his hold on her. She drops her weight, twists out, and kicks the outside of his knee—not with full force, but with the angle that makes legs betray you.

Jack stumbles.

She follows that by yelling even louder than before, and spins again, coming around this time with a fierce, swinging kick to the outside of Jack’s left knee, both of them hearing a crack as she does.

Hannah ignores the sound.

He’s not Jack now.

Just her opponent.

Jack shakes off the pain in his knee and gets into a crouch, lowering his shoulder and driving it into Hannah’s stomach, putting her on the mat as he lands with all his weight on top of her.

Pinned this way, she can barely breathe.

“Stay down,” he says.

She looks up at him, seeing the sad and almost resigned look on his face: the same thing she saw in the shelter after Conner died. A good person trapped inside someone else’s rules.

The man she really has come to respect so much.

Both having found themselves in this impossible situation.

“I still don’t want to hurt you,” Jack says.

“Do . . . what . . . you have to,” she manages.

Once more, though, he seems to freeze, having no idea what to do now to end the fight.

For a second—one tiny second—he hesitates.

It gives Hannah the last opening she needs.

If Jack can’t bring himself to end this, she can.

90.

At the last possible second Hannah tucks her chin to her chest, burying it in there as deeply as she can just in case Jack changes his mind and does decide he has to punch her in the face.

No matter how fond he is of her.

The voice of her father is back inside Hannah’s head for the last time. Otto Wagner practically shouting at her that a guard position can be crucial—can be everything—in ground fighting like this.

Hannah frames her forearms against Jack’s shoulders, creates space the size of a breath. Then she bucks hard—hips up, turning—slipping one knee between them.

Jack shifts to keep her down.

Hannah pivots and catches his arm, trapping it against her chest. A quick, ugly little lock that doesn’t need strength—only timing. She knows that won’t stop him for long. But she doesn’t need to stop him for long.

Jack’s face changes instantly. Pain flashes there. He tries to pull free. Hannah tightens the angle. Jack stops moving. He knows what it is. He’s been trained.

“You’re going to break it,” Jack says, voice tight.

“I don’t want to,” Hannah whispers.