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Inertia
Inertia
Inertia
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Inertia

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Jason Shaw is looking forward to spending the Thanksgiving weekend in Washington DC with the colonel and his son Peter, not least because the colonel has promised to take Jason to a firing range. Although his father is a police detective, he won’t let Jason handle a gun and sends him to self-defense classes instead. As a storm descends on Washington, the secure building in which the colonel works is taken over by terrorists and Jason is the only one not taken captive. As he roams the unfamiliar building with the power out, searching for an escape route and trying to evade the gunmen, he must choose between using an unfamiliar weapon or relying on the skills he learnt in self-defense class. When it becomes crucial to his survival, which will he choose?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherD C Grant
Release dateAug 22, 2015
ISBN9781311021618
Inertia
Author

D C Grant

D C Grant was born in Manchester, England but she didn’t stay there for long as the family moved to Lowestoft, Suffolk when she was four. She didn’t stay here for long either, moving to South Africa with her family when she was thirteen. This is where she found that she liked words to string words together and create a story out of thin air. Just when she thought her inter-continental moving days were over, she moved to New Zealand with husband and two daughters. Here she was first published by Scholastic NZ Ltd.Since then she has proceeded to write and publish books, expanding into digital ebooks as the format became more popular. While her first few books are set in New Zealand, later books expand into other parts of the world, drawing on her experiences whilst living in other countries.Her favorite authors are Lee Child and Bernard Cornwell and, while she reads diversely, she leans towards the mystery/thriller and historical fiction. So it is only right that she writes in these genres for children and young adults.D C Grant lives in a New York loft style apartment in Auckland, New Zealand with a slightly psychotic cat called Candy and drinks lots of coffee to power her through the late night writing sessions – because she’s a night owl!Find D C Grant at:www.dcgrant.co.nzhttps://www.facebook.com/dcgrantwriterhttps://www.goodreads.com/D_C_Granthttps://dcgrantwriter.wordpress.com/

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    Inertia - D C Grant

    I crouch down into a fighting stance as the older boy approaches. I glance right and left, seeking an escape route, but I am surrounded by a circle of other kids, their shouts just a jumbled noise in my ears. I search for something to use as a weapon but the area around me is bare. There’s nothing.

    At least my attacker doesn’t have a weapon either, apart from his size advantage. He’s two years older than me and twenty pounds heavier. But I’m lighter and faster, I can use that.

    I remember what the instructor taught me and concentrate on his eyes, allowing my peripheral vision to pick up any movement in his arms or legs so that I can be ready.

    He swings at me with a punch, I block it with my left forearm, the impact jarring but not painful. He sweeps in with a left, aiming for my stomach, and I block that with my right.

    I need to end this, before he gains momentum. With his punches blocked, I slash out with my leg, aiming for his shin, but he’s ahead of me, pulling back a moment before my foot connects. I realize I’ve made a fatal mistake. My foot is hanging in midair, all my weight on my left leg, and I can tell he registers this at the same time that I do.

    Frantically I attempt to pull my leg back, get myself standing solidly on two feet again, but he’s already moving, reaching down to grab my knee and yank upward so that I’m forced over backward, losing my balance and landing heavily on the mat.

    Before I can roll away, he drops to his knee beside me and bends his arm. They all watch as his elbow speeds toward my face.

    Halt! the instructor shouts. The elbow stops an inch from my nose. Good work, Kevin.

    The boy above me smiles, moves his elbow back so that his hand is alongside my face and taps me lightly on the cheek. Nice try, Pipsqueak.

    I scowl as I push myself up onto my elbows, breathing heavily. I’m not unfit, but being picked out from the rest of the students for a demonstration always makes me anxious, and that leads to a shot of adrenaline, which leads to increased lung function – in other words, I’m panting.

    Kevin holds out his hand. No hard feelings?

    I shake my head and clasp his outstretched hand. He leans back to pull me up, but instead I yank him toward me, causing him to lose his balance, and I roll away as he heads face down for the mat. I let go of his hand, turn to one side as he lands, then turn back again, straddling him and placing my elbow at the base of his skull.

    None at all, I say.

    Around me the rest of the class laughs. I check with the instructor, who nods, and I lever myself off Kevin and stand to one side while he pushes himself to his feet and grins. Together we return to our places at the edge of the mat.

    Well done, Pipsqueak, Kevin whispers, but I’ll get you next time.

    Just try it, Hardball.

    We grin at each other. The fighting and bantering is just of the part of the rivalry between us. Compared to the rest of the class, Kevin and I have advanced the most in Krav Maga since we started, and the instructor is forever pitting us against each other. He doesn’t hide that this is deliberate, saying that the competition is good practice for us. I’m not sure he’s right.

    Right, guys, it’s dead body time, the instructor says.

    A few kids let out a collective groan.

    Do we have to do this Yoda stuff? one of them says.

    It’s yoga, James, not Yoda, and yes we have to do this stuff. Learning how to control your breathing will help you in times of stress, when you need to think quickly and clearly. Panting creates panic, and panic can be debilitating. It means your attacker can gain the advantage.

    So that means when we’re attacked, we lie down and play dead?

    No, Jacob, it means that when you’re under threat, you don’t gulp air like a fish out of water. Come on now, everyone lie down in svanasana, head toward me and feet toward the back of the room, feet slightly out, arms at your sides. Relax and close your eyes.

    The class shuffle as we get into the position. I don’t mind svanasana. I find it relaxing after a class, and the pranayama exercises help me with my breathing when I’m running.

    Okay, nine count breathing. Breathe in to the count of three, hold to the count of four, and breathe out to the count of two. Begin. No James, don’t pant, I thought we already went over this. Fill your tummy first, then your chest, hold the breath and then breathe away. Come on, James.

    I tune out the instructor and settle into the rhythm of my breathing, feeling my stomach and chest expand, holding the breath for as long as I can and then releasing it. I wonder if the instructor is going to challenge us to hold our breath for the longest. If he does, I want to be ready. With the rest of the class, I work my way through a few rounds of the nine count breathing, feeling my heart rate settle as I concentrate on my intake and release of breath.

    The instructor’s voice breaks into my thoughts. Okay, class, longest to hold their breath. Ready? Breathe in to the count of three: one … two … three. I hear the click of the stopwatch.

    I allow my mind to drift, knowing my lungs have as much air in them as they can manage. I know I can hold my breath for a long time, but not for as long as Kevin. Maybe I can beat him this time. I ignore the gasps of the guys around me, who’ve only been able to hold their breath for a few seconds, and set my intention to hold out for the longest.

    From the sounds around me I know that more and more are failing. I still feel comfortable; I’m not yet feeling the burn in my lungs.

    Forty seconds, the instructor announces.

    I know I can go for longer, but for how much longer? There is a tickle at the back of my throat, a nudge from my body telling me it’s time to exhale and draw in another breath. I ignore it. The burn is starting in my chest.

    Fifty seconds.

    My brain is screaming at me to breathe. Instincts are kicking in. The burn is spreading throughout my chest. It’s getting harder to ignore.

    Sixty seconds.

    I can go a bit longer if I just get into the right mindset. I force myself to relax even further, feel my mind drift away, hold the breath inside me.

    Seventy seconds.

    I know that Kevin can hold his breath for longer than a minute with ease, but how much longer?

    Eighty seconds.

    The urge to release my breath is overwhelming. I hold out, waiting to hear the exhale from my opponent. I know that we are the only two left now.

    Ninety seconds.

    I can stand it no longer. I let out my breath in a great sigh and gulp in a lungful of air, opening my eyes to see if I am the last one standing, or lying in this case. Beside me, Kevin is on his back, still, not breathing. He and I were the only ones left and now it is just him.

    As if he senses my movements, he breathes out, more controlled than my great sigh, and breathes in, looking at the instructor expectantly.

    Ninety-five seconds, he says as he clicks the stopwatch. Kevin is the winner.

    The class claps him and I do too. I know when I am beat. We shake hands on it. One day I will beat him.

    The instructor faces us. Right, that’s class over for today. The studio is in recess for Thanksgiving but I expect you all back next week. And I want you fighting fit, not overblown with turkey. Have fun.

    I grab my hoodie and pull it over my head before stepping out into the cold fall air that grabs at my bare legs as I make my way to the car. Fortunately Dad is in the disabled parking not too far from the entrance, but I’m chilled by the time I reach the vehicle.

    I open the door and slide into the front seat, adjusting the air vents to blow warm air onto me.

    Good class? Dad asks.

    Okay, I guess, I reply as Dad backs out of the parking space. I still don’t know why you want me to know this stuff.

    I thought we’d been through this, Dad says as he pulls out into the roadway. You’ve been abducted, shot, tasered – you name it, it’s happened to you – and I reckon you need a few skills to prevent anything like that happening again.

    As if stuff like that is going to happen again.

    If it does, you’ll know what to do.

    And why this Israeli martial art stuff – Krav Maga? I ask.

    "Because this is what Mike recommends. He did some of this stuff, as you

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