Take one more step and I’ll exercise my legal right to self-defense — and then I’ll let the police sort out which one of us has a felony on the recording.”

I didn’t need to strike her. I didn’t even need to raise my voice.

Because behind me, Michael stepped up. Then Jake, chest out, cracking his knuckles. Then Susie, glaring with pure hatred. Within seconds, a wall of fifty hardened, sweating athletes had formed a phalanx at my back.

Christine stopped dead. She looked at the army of the mat and understood that her small-town intimidation held zero currency here. Outnumbered. Outgunned.

Outclassed.

“Let’s go, Chris,” one of her cronies whispered, tugging her sleeve in terror. “They’re filming us.”