I dare someone to try and target this house. Closing the curtains, I check the last gun on my rounds, in the top drawer of the dining hutch, counting the bullets. I've got forty-five really good reasons why they shouldn't, in every room.

It's not about my safety.

It's about who else is under my roof.

That's why I won't be fucking around.

•••

"Aggravated assault upon a person less than eleven years old

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"Aggravated assault upon a person less than eleven years old."

I tighten my stance, keeping my back straight.

"E Felony," I respond readily.

I execute a perfect Dempsey roll and drop step, Ken grunting.

"Assault on a police officer, fireman or EMS professional."

I duck down to dodge three hits, then throw four quick precise jabs.

"C Violent Felony."

I land a swift punch to the side of his core which throws him back on the floor hard.

Move quick.

Focus.

"Reckless assault of a child by a child day care provider."

"E Felony."

Ken regains his composure and attempts a straight left, which I dodge.

"Criminal possession of methamphetamine manufacturing material in the second degree."

"A Misdemeanor."

"Facilitating a sex offense with a controlled substance."

"D Violent Felony."

Three punches follow in quick succession.

I push up off the back of my left foot, controlling my energy, and drop my knees slightly to open up the lower reserve in my legs. Pushing forward, I then go for a right cross.

"Gang assault in the second degree."

Left hook.

"C Violent Felony."

Right cross again.

Grunting and smacking sounds from the impact of the gloves echo throughout the gym. Novices and veterans duke it out in six separate rings, neck to neck with throws.

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