The sheriff had his back toward her as he bent over an unconscious—please let him just be unconscious—Chris. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she charged toward Coughlin. In his hunched position, it was easy to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck.
With a roar, he straightened, but she hung on, clasping her hands together and pressing her left forearm against the side of his neck. Although she’d practiced the hold in training, she’d never actually used it until that moment, and she hoped desperately it would work. If her arm wasn’t positioned correctly, or if she wasn’t applying enough pressure to cut off the flow of blood to his brain, he could shake her off like a fly and then kill her just as easily.
The seconds felt like hours as he grabbed at her encircling arms. Then, just as she worried she’d messed up the hold, he went down hard, taking her with him to the floor. When Chris had taught her the move, he’d told her to help the unconscious person down so they weren’t injured, but there was no slowing the sheriff’s bulk when he went limp.
His body landed partially on top of hers, driving the air from Daisy’s lungs in a pained grunt. She knew she had only a short time before he recovered consciousness, and she fought her way out from under his bulk. Shoving him onto his left side, she managed to wriggle free.
Unsnapping his holster, she slid out his gun. Daisy wasted a precious second debating what to do with the weapon. Except for some practice dry firing and cleaning the pistols Rory had lent her, she hadn’t had any experience with firearms. Daisy thought of tucking it in the back of her waistband, but she wasn’t sure if her yoga pants would hold the heavy gun.
The sheriff groaned and, in her panic, she slid the weapon across the wood floor away from them both. It skidded to a halt a few feet from Chris’s unmoving form. Ripping her gaze away from him, she refocused on the sheriff. If she allowed herself to dwell on Chris’s stillness, Daisy knew she’d lose her ability to do anything useful.
With a hard shove, she rolled Coughlin onto his stomach. He was moving his arms slightly, and she knew she had to act fast before he was fully conscious and able to fight her. He kept his handcuff case on the left rear of his duty belt, and Daisy fumbled to remove the cuffs.
Grabbing his left hand by the thumb, she twisted it onto his back and secured the cuff around his wrist. Holding the section between the cuffs in her left fist, she reached for his other hand with her right.
Before she could grab it, he rolled, swinging his left arm and jerking the cuffs out of her hand. The open side of the restraints flew toward her face, the metal forming a dangerous hook, capable of gouging eyes or delicate flesh. Ducking, she brought up her hands to protect herself, falling hard on her shoulder. She tried to roll, but Coughlin had followed her, pinning her back to the floor.
She thrust up her arm, sending a palm-heel strike toward his nose. When he jerked back, avoiding most of the impact, Daisy took advantage of the space he’d created and flipped onto her stomach. In her head, she could hear Chris coaching her. Keep fighting, Dais. That’s the most important thing. Don’t give up.
Pulling her knees up under her, she drove her elbow into the sheriff’s ribs, taking a vicious pleasure in his grunt of pain. Without pausing, she swung back her head, feeling her skull connect with something so hard that the impact made her vision blur for a moment. Whatever she’d hit had made him yell and back off. She dragged herself free of his loosened hold and scrambled to her feet.
When she turned, the sheriff was up, as well, his eye red and already swelling. Chris’s voice rang in her head again. Don’t let up, Daisy. Keep the hits coming. She kicked out, not wanting to get close enough to land a punch. Her front kick drove him back a few steps, and then she swung her leg in a side kick, hoping to hit that same place on his thigh where she’d landed the blow on Ian.
His hand caught her ankle before she connected, and he jerked her forward. She stumbled, and the sheriff yanked again, knocking her onto her back. The air rushed out of her lungs when she hit, leaving her gasping. He followed her down, pinning her again, and then he swung.
His fist hit her face with such force that all her training disappeared. The only thing that remained was the pain and the bewildering knowledge that someone—the sheriff!—had hit her. She was used to grappling and punching bags, but none of that had prepared her for the brain-shattering reality of a true hit.