But Walker was sharp.
Sharper than Slater expected.
Even with blood fountaining from his collar bone, he had the wherewithal to throw his head to one side, maybe giving himself whiplash but avoiding a stomp to the face. He rolled with the momentum and came up on his knees and transitioned straight into a rudimentary takedown attempt. He had both arms wrapped around Slater’s legs before Slater could move. The disrupted equilibrium didn’t help Slater’s predicament. He found himself wildly off-balance and tried to lunge out of Walker’s grip, but the man held tight, and pressed close up against Slater’s frame.
Suddenly Slater was airborne.
Walker lifted him, and took two bounding steps and caught King rounding the corner.
King raised his MP7 to fire but hesitated, because chances were he’d put rounds into Slater’s back, with Walker holding him in a rudimentary fireman’s carry.
Slater’s heart stopped.
Maybe he was right, Slater thought. Maybe friendship can get you killed.
Walker maintained the momentum and then planted his feet and heaved.
Slater crashed into King, and the two of them toppled to the floor.
In the movies, combat is smooth and flows from one sequence to the next with beautiful uninterrupted choreography. Real life is a little harsher than that. Both of them went down in a tangle of limbs and Slater came close to striking his head against the ground, which would have put him at three concussive blows within the span of half an hour. He knew his brain was volatile, so he took great care to roll with the landing, even if it meant he ended up out of position.
Bad move.
When he righted himself Walker was there in his face, and the man booted him square in the chest with enough force to throw him through one of the dividers. He crashed to earth again, and this time he stayed down.
He watched King rear up with his MP7 in hand, but Walker was too close.
They brawled.
It would take Slater seconds to disentangle himself from the plasterboard. Seconds he didn’t have.
King was on his own.
69
King saw the skirmish unfold in all its chaotic steps, and moved to end it.
He raised his MP7, which he’d somehow managed to keep hold of, but Walker was right there and drilled a left hand into the bridge of his nose.
Crack.
Broken.
Just like that.
His eyes watered involuntarily and he lost sight of his target, which spelled disaster. He brought the barrel around but Walker simply wrestled the submachine gun off him and thundered a boot into his gut. A teep kick, executed beautifully. A symphony of violence. King doubled over and Walker made to deliver the finishing blow but a second wind seized King and he staggered away from the man.
Walker followed.
Slowly.
Patiently.
A vulture circling its prey.
King wasn’t sure where the MP7 was. Then he glimpsed its outline, firm in Walker’s hands, and he dove behind the nearest partition even though he knew it would do nothing to protect him.
But it did.
Bullets shredded the plasterboard, tearing straight through, but in a sheer miracle none of them slammed home against his frame. He burrowed deeper into the ruins of the cubicle he’d entered, squirming and writhing away from the gunfire. The crippling sensation of doubt ran through him, weighing him down. He was Jason King. One of the most feared and respected soldiers in government history. And now Walker was running through him, barely breaking a sweat.
Then, through the doubt, he found a morsel of calm.
That was all he needed.
He tapped into the flow state, and the usual icy focus came over him, despite the carnage unfolding all around him.
And then he smiled.
Because he remembered who he was.
He let out a shout of agony as if he’d been mortally wounded, and Walker paused his assault to step forward and rip the plasterboard apart, allowing him a clear line of sight to King’s crippled form, but as soon as he tore part of the wall out King reared up and burst back in Walker’s direction and tackled him out into the middle of the hallway.
They sprawled, and limbs crashed into torsos, and fists into faces, and foreheads into noses.
A fight to the death.
King didn’t know how hurt he was, or how badly he’d hurt Walker. The man was a legitimate phenom — if he hadn’t realised it yet, now it struck home. Black Force, in its heyday, would have scooped him up if they had the opportunity. Walker was strong, and fast, and tough, and his reflexes were otherworldly. He would have mopped the floor with anyone sent to subdue him, and it was no wonder he’d found astonishing success as a gun-for-hire.
But all those traits applied to King, too.
And deep down, he had the unshakeable belief that he could endure better than anyone else on the planet, no matter how evenly their skills matched up.
So with a broken nose and a bloody mouth and searing pain in his ribs, he fought and clawed for every advantage. He dropped an elbow on Walker’s face, stunning the man, and then he rolled off him and snatched up the MP7 and rolled to aim it and—
Shit.
Slater was there, grappling with Walker, misinterpreting the situation and figuring that King needed his life saved. The wrestling match turned ferocious and King held back on pulling the trigger, knowing that one of his shots only had to stray an inch to kill his brother-in-arms.
But Slater was compromised.
From the concussion.
Walker hit him with a perfect right hand to the centre of his chest, sapping his breath away, and when he fell back he landed on King. King lowered him to the ground but it provided just enough of a break in the action for Walker to close the distance and drill the same right hand into King’s face, hitting him full in the mouth.
King sat down hard, and Walker took the gun off him like taking candy from a baby.
Game over.
Walker regarded the two defeated, unarmed combatants at his feet.
He wiped blood off his face and said, ‘I’ll admit, lads, you
