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She looked toward my voice and changed direction immediately, angling away from the doorway instead of stopping to turn on Grant. That gave me the space I needed.

I crossed the last few yards as Grant stepped through the opening. He saw me too late to change what he had already committed to. The mallet started down toward Sybil’s back, and I hit his arm before the swing could finish.

Metal struck timber with a crack that echoed through the empty set.

Grant staggered into the doorframe, recovered faster than I expected, and came at me instead.

I put myself between him and Sybil.

Behind me, her boots scraped across the boards as she kept moving clear.

That sound mattered more than anything else in the world.

Grant tried to bring the mallet around again, but the rear exit had been built for people moving through it single file. Rough timber crowded his right shoulder, and I was already too close for him to get the steel head behind another full swing. He changed tactics and drove the handle toward my ribs.

I turned enough to take it across the heavier part of my side and caught his forearm before he could pull back. The impact burned along my ribs, but I kept my feet under me and drove forward. His back hit the doorframe hard enough to shake the bell rope beside us.

Grant shoved against my chest with his free hand. I stepped inside the pressure, pinned his weapon arm high against the timber, and forced his wrist away from the handle. He fought the leverage instead of letting go. For several seconds there was nothing clean about it—his boot grinding on wet boards, my shoulder jammed beneath his arm, the metal head knocking against the frame every time he tried to wrench it free.

Beyond him, the green egress light caught Sybil moving farther down the outside strip. She had cleared the narrow approach and was putting distance between herself and the fight without leaving my line of sight.

I shifted my grip and drove Grant’s hand against the flat side of the frame.

His fingers opened.

The mallet dropped between our boots.

I got my hand around the handle before he could bend for it and threw it hard down the outside path. It struck a stack of unused timber with a heavy clang and fell into the grass beyond it.

Grant’s head snapped toward the sound.

I used the distraction.

My forearm went across his upper chest as I turned him out of the doorway and onto the packed dirt beside the set. He tried to twist loose, catching a fistful of my thermal, but his footing was worse outside. One heel slid through damp leaves. I took his balance with it, turned my hips, and brought him down away from the boards.

He landed hard enough to grunt.

I followed him to the ground before he could roll, keeping one arm trapped beneath me while I brought the other behind his back. Grant bucked once, then tried to turn his shoulder through the hold.

“Don’t,” I said.

He ignored me.

I increased the pressure until his movement stopped buying him anything.

Cold dirt soaked through one knee of my jeans. My breathing had gone hard from the run and the fight, and Grant’s chest heaved against the ground beneath me. Wind swept along the back of the structures, carrying the smell of wet corn, trampled leaves, and old fog fluid from somewhere inside the darkened attraction.

I looked toward Sybil.

She had stopped near the end of the temporary fence with her radio in one hand. Her other palm rested against the top rail while she caught her breath. Mud covered one knee, her hair was wild around her face, and there was a dark scrape along the heel of one hand.

She met my eyes and lifted the radio slightly. “You have him?”

“I have him.”

Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “Then call O’Shea. I’m staying right here.”

I kept my weight settled over Grant while I reached for my phone.