The man Wolf had knocked down earlier, the one who had tried to bring Max his jacket, was somehow back on his feet.
Wincing, he pressed a hand to his sore chin and glanced around to get his bearings. That's when he noticed Max. The black-jacketed teen was already moving, heading down toward the area where the manager stood.
The man didn't think twice. It was the first thing he saw, the first thing his instincts screamed at him to stop. He vaulted over a row of seats, landing hard as he prepared to jump again,
, but mid-leap, a golden blur intercepted him.
Wolf's hand clamped down on his face, gripping it like a basketball. Without hesitation, he slammed the man straight into the row of chairs, splinters flying from the force. The metal creaked under the impact.
And then, without missing a beat, Wolf twisted his body and followed up with a spinning punch, his fist connecting squarely with the side of the man's skull.
The hit was clean. Powerful. Final.
