Awakened by the rush of movement, the tattooed man roused himself enough to clamber to his feet. About half a second too late. The roundhouse he threw was so telegraphed I had no trouble ducking under it. Then I clipped him with my forearm, snapping his head back. For good measure, I grabbed his shoulders with both hands and slammed his head against one of the standing two-by-fours. He collapsed in a heap. I stood with feet apart, breathing hard. While my old pugilistic instincts had served me, my no-longer-young body protested. My forearm stung from the blow, and my legs felt wobbly. Still aching from my tumble down the sinkhole, my back was threatening to seize up. All of which I barely registered. My only thought at the moment concerned the unconscious woman on the floor. Thankfully, and somewhat surprisingly, alive. I crouched by Lisa’s side and carefully removed the duct tape from her mouth.
