vest again. I was a lot taller than Lorenzo. I pulled his vest up from behind and down over his face. I leaned into him then, punching him in the head over and over again, hockey-brawl style.
I thought I heard Lorenzo say something, but I couldn’t understand him. Then the building was rocked by an explosion outside.
LORENZO
My brain must have really bounced off the inside of my skull, because I couldn’t remember how I’d ended up on the floor with a mouth full of blood. My earpiece was lying next to my head, and I could barely hear Carl screaming about something.
Someone was talking, angrily asking me questions. The kick that landed in my ribs was unbelievably hard. The second was even worse. It was that son of a bitch, Nightcrawler. There was a gun in his hand. My gun,
I slid down, shaking my head, trying to focus, which is difficult when you’re getting punched. I couldn’t hear Carl, but he could still hear me through my throat mike. I needed a distraction. “Carl, hit it.”
A concussion shook the room as Carl radio-detonated the Semtex plastic explosive I had left in the Mitsubishi. Nightcrawler spun, surprised by the noise. I shoved myself upright as he turned back to me. I kicked him in the chest. Dust flew from my boot as he crashed back into the wall next to the bed. I moved in while he was off balance and threw a knee to his side. He grimaced but stayed up. I followed with an elbow to his face, but he blocked it with his forearm and then used his size advantage to shove me back with one big meat hook against my sternum.
The kid was bigger and stronger, but I was faster. He was using a form of Krav Maga, but he was rusty. He didn’t practice much, I could tell. I locked up on his arm, spun inside of it, and slugged him in the kidney, then put my foot on the inside of his knee and forced him down. I jerked up on his arm, trying to snap it at the elbow. He crashed into the shelf, snapping boards and sending things flying. He shouted incoherently as his other arm came around with something shiny and metallic and caught me on the side of the head.
I must have gone out for a second. I was down, blood spewing from my mouth. The room spun as I refocused, again on the floor, and at the blood-stained Korth revolver that he’d just hit me with.
I rolled out of the way as his foot kicked through empty air. I was back up in a split second, trying to make distance until I could see straight. I was dizzy, but my blade appeared in my hand, like I had willed the Greco there with anger alone. His hand came out of his pocket, and a switchblade opened with an audible
“Oh, it’s on now,” he said as he pointed the knife at me, chest heaving, gasping for breath.
I spat out a bunch of blood. “On like Donkey Kong, motherfucker.”
We charged.
VALENTINE
I had to finish this. The warning klaxon was screaming, and I could hear people shouting outside. Lorenzo had a hard gleam in his eye, and I knew he meant to kill me.
He lunged. I dodged to the right and tried to slash at him with the Infidel automatic knife in my left hand. His hand arced around and put a gash up my left cheek, barely missing my eye. It wasn’t deep, but Christ it was close. I slashed at his abdomen as he pulled away and managed to clip him.
Lorenzo only took a moment to recompose and came at me again. I could tell he was a better fighter than me. He fought like a wounded animal and was extremely fast. This guy was dangerous. But he was injured. I still had the advantage.
He slashed at my face. I leaned back and dodged it, but just barely. I tried to stab him in the abdomen. He moved to the right, avoiding the thrust. His right hand came back down, trying to cut open my left arm. I twisted to the left at the last second. He sliced upward, nicking my arm.
He didn’t let up. As I recoiled in pain, he brought his left elbow up and smashed it into my face. Lights flashed in front of my eyes. I dropped my knife. Lorenzo then snap-kicked me in the chest, sending me crashing to the floor.
He was on top of me in an instant. I kicked out, nailing him in the groin. Lorenzo grunted and gasped for air, face turning red. I turned around, fumbling for any kind of weapon. My hand found the rock I used to prop the balcony door open. Grasping it, I sat up and threw it at Lorenzo as hard as I could. His hands flew up to cover his face. The white, softball-sized Zubaran rock hit him in the forearms. He reeled back.
I only had a second. I sat up and dove toward my bed. I desperately grasped for my holstered revolver sitting on my armor. Lorenzo reached me before I could reach my .44, trying to plunge his blade into my back.
LORENZO
It should have been over by now. I should have been able to take him, but those initial hits had left me disoriented, sluggish. Before I could drive my knife into his spine, his enormous boot hit me in the stomach. My abs absorbed the hit, but I staggered back, gasping for air. The kid was pulling that big .44 now, the muzzle swinging toward me.
I stepped into him, knife humming through the air. He raised his right hand to hold me off and I opened his forearm, splashing the walls with red droplets. The kid screamed as the blade struck. But I was too late, he swiveled the big revolver into me from a low retention position.
The concussion was deafening in the little room. The mammoth slug hit me square in the chest. My armor stopped it, but I couldn’t breathe. It was like being hit with a bat. Fire washed down every nerve. It took everything I had to stay on my feet. We locked up, me trying to keep that gun away and his blood-slick hand wrapped around my wrist to keep my knife at bay.
I got my fingers around the cylinder of the Smith and wouldn’t let it turn as he squeezed the trigger. I could feel his other hand slipping off my knife, and as soon as he let go I was going to plunge it into his neck. We spun around, shoving and grunting, stumbling over the junk on the floor. He was shouting in my ear.
All coherent thought had ceased. It was kill or be killed. No time for fear, no time for pain. I kept throwing knees, trying to tear him down. He head-butted me in the face, smashing my nose, but he stumbled back as well. My eyes filled with involuntary tears, and my hand began to slip from the cylinder.
Desperate, I dropped my knife, reached across his torso, and got my thumb under the hammer of the Smith just as it fell, blocking the shot. His wounded hand now free, the kid swung for my face. I ducked, pushed the gun away from me, and hit him repeatedly, forearms, fists, elbows, knees, every time that gun came back around, I hit him again. He went to his knees, still trying to shoot me. I stepped back and snap-kicked him in the face.
He landed flat on his back with a huge crash.
That had to do it. I bore down on him, ready to beat his head in. He jerked the gun up.
There was a flash of light as he fired, so close that fire engulfed my vision. He missed, but pain like nothing I had ever felt before pierced the right side of my skull. The bullet skimmed past my head and blew a chunk from the ceiling, but I was already falling, clamping one hand over my bleeding ear.
My balance was just gone. I could barely think. I wanted to vomit. All I could hear was this terrible grinding noise as my eardrum died. He was rising, wobbly, seeing two of me. Then I saw tiny green lights under the bed, the night sights from my 9mm. I snatched it into my hand, rolled over and stood, gun punching out, finger already on the trigger.
