chucklehead had gotten to, he hadn't the foggiest fucking idea.
But there was no time to think about any of that. The swordsman was on him. The blade was arcing up again, preparing for a second attack that could come at him high or low. All Bishop could manage to do was circle away. Keep the distance between them. Keep moving, circling, circling, staving off the moment when the Fu Manchu guy would strike again.
' Hwa! Hwee! Hwoo! ' the swordsman shouted, circling opposite Bishop.
The other bully boys gathered around the two of them, shouting encouragement, clapping, moving as they moved. They loved this stuff. As the blade snaked out in a lashing circle under Bishop's nose, Bishop dodged back and felt one of the thugs put hands on him to shove him toward his opponent. The Fu Manchu guy saw this happen and instantly moved in for another strike.
That turned out to be a break for Bishop. He pivoted, grabbed the gi of the thug who'd pushed him, spun him around in front of him. Blocked by his fellow bully boy, the Fu Manchu guy froze, mid-hwa! Bishop shoved the thug-a dim-witted redhead-straight into his attacker. It only slowed him for a second. The Fu Manchu guy caught the dimwit redhead's arm and hurled him aside.
But by then Bishop had dashed away. The redhead had left a gap in the circle of bully boys. Bishop slipped through it and rushed for the wall. He grabbed the first samurai sword he could get his hands on and yanked it free of its mount. What he planned to do with it he wasn't sure, but it was better than his bare hands-it had to be. He swept it quickly from its sheath and tossed the sheath away. The blade gleamed bright, a shorter one- katana, that was the word! Well-balanced and with a full tang, set deep and solidly into the handle.
None of which was any comfort. All he could remember from his casual study of samurai swordplay was some Zen bullshit about having No Mind and being One with the Blade. He figured he'd have No Mind in a big hurry if this crazy Asian fucker hit him in the head with his fucking broadsword again. And as for being One with the Blade-that was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
But he seized the handle of the katana with both hands as he recalled you were supposed to. He held it up in front of him, pointing the blade at the Asian's eyes just as he would've done in a knife fight-that made it hard for his opponent to judge the distance of the point and also distracted him from the feints and movements of his body.
As Bishop began to circle again, it came back to him what a natural weapon the samurai sword was, a comfortable extension of the hands and arms. A desperate little hope flared in him. The Fu Manchu guy was so busy putting on a show for his pals, so busy hwa-hwo-hweeing and swinging the sword in fancy eights and arcs, that if Bishop could stay focused, he might just have a chance to get in on him quick and drop him.
He circled away cautiously, the samurai sword held out before him. The Fu Manchu guy came charging in, the broadsword dancing in the air. The bully boys catcalled. They caught the uncertainty in Bishop's stance and motions. They urged Fu to finish him off.
'Slice him, slice and dice him!'
'Cut him bad, baby!'
'Make meat out of him!'
Bishop forced the grinning, crowing thug faces into the soft blur of his outer attention. He watched the Fu Manchu guy, saw his eyes flare. The broadsword seemed to spiral out of flashing heights and sweep toward his shoulder, edge first. Bishop twisted his wrists, and his katana went horizontal. With a metallic shock, the two blades met. Bishop parried the broadsword, turning his body out of its deflected path. In the same movement, he brought the katana around and swung it low at Fu Man's kneecap. He hoped to hit just hard enough to slice the tendon. But the strike was met by the sweeping block of the broadsword. Another metallic sting and Bishop was pushed back. Fu Manchu stepped in with a direct thrust-a genuine thrust that would've opened Bishop's belly. Bishop was startled by its deadliness. The fight had turned serious, and only a hurried, almost panicked recovery-an inversion of the wrists that turned the katana nearly straight down-fended off the broadsword's point and gave him the chance to step back and away.
Both men were in their stances again, both were circling. There was a little less hwa-hwa crap coming out of Fu Man now. He was breathing hard, and the arcs of the broadsword were slower and less ornate. That didn't mean he was easing up, though. Bishop could see the anger contorting his mouth. He knew that last reckless thrust had been powered by raw temper. And he knew the next attack would have the same mortal rage behind it, maybe worse. Even the shouts and jokes of the bully boys had dropped a key, had become guttural and murderous.
This had gone too far. Bishop knew he had to end it quick or he'd go home with his head in his hands. The shock of the first onslaught had worn off. That weird killer cool of his was coming back. Even with his pulse pounding, even with his eyes fastened on the swinging broadsword, a feeling that could only be described as mirth was pumping out of the center of him, coursing through his veins. This was it. This was the finish of it, one way or the other.
The Fu Man was gearing up for another attack. Looking for a weak spot. Sidestepping, swinging the silver blade, whipping the black-and-scarlet cloth poetically through the air. Bishop was still on the defensive, circling away, circling away, ready to fend off the strike and answer with a strike of his own. He knew he wasn't good enough with the sword to make an effective assault, but if he could get the Fu to commit himself…
Then… something… the slightest shift of Fu Man's ferocious gaze. A glance over Bishop's shoulder as if someone was coming up behind him. Maybe it was a trick, but maybe…
With a swift pivot of his arm, Bishop brought the katana crosswise at his own eye level. There-reflected in the gleaming steel-the furious features of the evil white chuckle-head were rushing straight at him.
Bishop released the sword handle with his right hand and drove his elbow backward into the chucklehead's throat. He heard a liquid gurgle; a thud as the Denver-sized enforcer dropped to the hardwood.
At the same moment, Fu Manchu came at him from the front. He feinted low, slipped Bishop's parry. Then he hoisted the broadsword high and brought it crashing down toward Bishop's skull.
With a cry, Bishop spun to the side. He felt the cold wind on his face as the silver blade sliced down past him. He saw the wide front edge of it hit the floor, notching the shiny surface. The momentum of the strike brought the Fu Man forward. On the instant Bishop stepped on the blade, pinning it to the hardwood. He put his other foot on the blade above the first, scrambling straight up the edge of the sword toward his opponent's head.
Fu Man straightened, trying to pull the broadsword free. The motion exposed the side of his neck.
Bishop had him. With a rush of savage joy, he hammered the pommel of the katana into the thug's carotid artery. The Fu Man's eyes flew up and his body dropped down. He crumpled to the dojo floor as if he were made of string.
It was over. Bishop dropped back, crouched low, turned round, pointing the katana 's blade at the circle of leering faces all around him, face by ugly, murderous face. A slow, seething growl seemed to come from all the bully boys at once. Bishop answered them with a slow, seething growl of his own.
He backed toward the door, that door he wanted on the far side of the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw his leather jacket on the floor. He swooped down and snapped it up, held it in his left hand, while his right kept the sword pointed at the bully boys.
The bully boys edged toward him, growling. Growling, he backed away until he felt the door at his shoulder.
Then he was through it, gone.
20.
The Frenchman looked up from his desk and saw a man with a sword framed in the doorway. At first he didn't believe what he was seeing. The man was a silhouette with the light of the hall behind him, and the Frenchman thought: No. But then the gunrunner narrowed his eyes, looked more closely. The man was holding a jacket over his shoulder with one hand, and the other hand held-yes, it was a sword, a long sword pointed slantwise at the floor.
Oh, what now? the Frenchman thought.
The man with the sword stepped into the little office and kicked the door shut behind him.
'Call off your thugs,' he said.