The Hitting Zone Novels & Stories

He aims and pulls the trigger. *************************************************************

she shouted, as I fell into a chair and went to work. When I’m in my zone, when the pressure is on, that’s when I thrive. That’s when I know what to do, I know how to attack. How to defend. It’s just the stroke of some keys, timing and outsmarting someone. Similar yet really different from physically fighting.

When he reached me, he held my hand. The touch sent electricity through our damaged mate bond. Pain and longing mixed with anger and grief. His eyes held mine, and I saw everything he'd never been brave enough to say. "There's one place they can't track us," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Dead Zones." The crowd went silent. Even Zane looked shocked. "That's suicide," Dr. Lorett said flatly. "What are the Dead Zones?" I asked. "Territories where technology doesn't work," Zane explained. "Something about the mineral deposits disrupts all electronic signals. That’s why they're called Dead Zones for a reason." His eyes found Dalton's. "No wolf who enters has ever come out alive.

Faster than thought. I intercept. Again. Always. The shot fires— grazes past— too close— too dangerous— I don’t stop. I don’t slow. I end it. This time— I don’t hold back. No hesitation. No calculation. Just— force. Impact. Bone. Silence. He hits the ground. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t get up. And for the first time— there’s nothing coming next. No counter. No second move. No recovery. Just—

The impact didn't just rattle the glass; it shook the steel foundations of Madison Square Garden. Hunter Vance hit Terry like a freight train flying off the tracks, his shoulder driving straight into Terry’s compromised left side with malicious, premeditated intent. The collision was a sickening crunch of composite fiberglass, heavy leather, and compressed cartilage.

And when he slips off the bed in an intimidating approach, I swing a hand out to stop him with a shaky, “No!” To our astonishment, the glow around my outstretched hand is getting colored over by a profound red that swells into a baseball-sized fireball and projects directly at Zorien with incredible speed. Even he doesn’t see it on time and barely misses as it grazes the extreme side of his bare torso. I jump back at once, ‘What did I just do?’ I look down at my hand in fear, was I about to kill someone just now? The thought scares me and I look to see Zorien unwavering from the hit as he casually runs a hand through his hair.

He pushed off and came up to the bag. "Okay, so first, when you were hitting it, you need to turn your shoulders just a little bit more to put more power behind the punch. That way when you swing, not only do you swing with your muscles in your arm, but you swing with the muscles in your upper body. Like this." He landed a hard punch on the bag and made a loud noise. "And don't lock your hips. It needs to be a full follow-through. You punch, and you should twist on the ball of your back foot toward your strike. Your hips and torso twist with you for a full but controlled movement."

Maybe she doesn't understand what I'm saying. "That's it, the point in the middle. The red dot in the circles. It's quite difficult and it's the highest level!" I shouted. "But getting hit with other parts is also not easy." I argued. Let her see how cool I am. I chewed gum while trying to fire again, aiming for the target. "Raise your hand a little more! Swipe left 3 cm is enough!" Luna said. I glanced at her in surprise. "The focus is the point if you want to hit a spot! Pick it up. Well... Just a little bit!"

SOMEWHERE. 9:00PM Victor sighed as he picked a ball out of the basket, balancing it on the gold tee with meticulous care. He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on his target. With a swift, powerful swing, he hit the ball off the tee. It soared through the air, cutting through the darkness before colliding with a sickening thud into the stomach of a bloodied, half-dead man tied to a pole.