room for him anymore.
Flood still hadn’t moved. The Cobra faked a chop with his left hand, spun into a tightly controlled back-kick, and used the forward momentum to fire three quick chopping strikes in one burst. The first two missed-Flood took the last one on her elbow, spun into it, and twisted her hips to launch an elbow at his exposed face. The Cobra leaned back, his lips parting as her arm shot by, but Flood kept spinning, aiming an eye-dart that just missed, raking the side of his face. First blood. The Cobra rolled to the floor and lashed up at her ankles with his heel, supporting himself with his palms.
Flood shot past the Cobra’s leg and exploded into the air, dropping down toward his face with one leg punching out like a piston.
The Cobra, true to his name, slithered sideways on the hardwood and aimed a powerful chop just as Flood’s foot flashed past him. She took it on the outside of her thigh, grunted, hit the floor with one leg and lashed back at him with the other. She caught him square in the ribs, but he was off his feet when it landed. He flew backward, hit the floor, and spun back up-his hands had never touched the deck.
Flood stepped back, circling her face with her hands, weaving a tapestry of death from the air. The Cobra’s mouth was bloody where he had bitten into his lip. He feinted to his left, pivoted on his right foot, firing another kick in Flood’s direction-but she hadn’t moved. Her back was to the door-all the fakes in the world wouldn’t get him through the opening.
He advanced on her with an extended left hand, thrusting it in and out, circling to his left, not letting her get set to kick. He knew where the danger was-her feet, not her hands. He switched hands in a blur, his right fist shooting forward. Flood threw up her forearm in a block but it wasn’t clean-there was a sharp crack and her arm dropped down for a split-second as she spun away.
He knew what he had to do now. He moved in again, hands out. Flood kicked at his midsection but he was ready-twisting with the force of her kick, he brought his hand out and around in a full spin and caught her just below the eye. It looked like an open-handed slap-Flood’s head snapped back with the blow, but she instantly blasted him full in the chest when he tried to follow up. He staggered back, losing his balance, and she was on him, blood streaming from under her eye. But the staggering was a fake-the Cobra caught her coming in and landed a three- finger dart to the same spot-his hand came away bloody. Flood hissed, hooking clawed fingers at his face with both hands, but he was already backing away, breathing smoothly.
The Cobra was dancing now-up on his toes, shaking his wrists to get full circulation, relaxed. Flood stood as though rooted to the hardwood, one side of her face covered with blood. One eye was closed, but the other was clear and cold. I glanced over at Max-his face was composed but the cords of his neck stood out like high-tension wires, and his forearms were knotted steel. He was looking only at Flood. I knew what he was thinking-she’d never quit. Flood was wedded to the Cobra until death did them part.
I silently screamed at her: “Flood, he’ll never leave this room alive no matter what. You don’t have to die too…” But I knew it was useless-there was nothing in her mind but the Cobra’s blood on Flower’s grave.
He came in behind a cat-stance, offering only a snake’s shadow for a target. He fired an exploratory left leg but Flood stood dead-still. He spun in a full circle, driving the edge of his hand across his body right to the point where her neck met her shoulder.
Flood hit the floor as though driven by the Cobra’s strike, but she was moving just ahead of his hand-she hit the floor with one palm and her own leg lashed out, the toe shooting toward his kneecap. I heard the crack before I saw him crumple and go down on one leg, the other twisted behind him-useless now. He clawed at her pants to bring her to him but she spun away and swirled to face him head-on-a blonde ghost-too quick for a Cobra to catch.
Now it was the Cobra who was rooted to the ground, but his fangs still worked. Flood danced in, stepped past his hand-strike, and caught the side of his head with a spinning kick. His neck twisted with the kick, but he brought his hand around again just quickly enough to block her next shot. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heart-and the Cobra’s raspy mouth-breathing.
Flood moved back over to him, set herself, rocked back on her right foot, and the left fired kick after kick-a heel to the side of the head, a toe to the neck, her powerful leg flashing inside the silk pants. He blocked some-but not enough. Flood was a graceful surgeon, cutting away flesh and bone to get to a tumor.
Then she stepped right into his grasping fingers, looking down as he clawed up toward her groin-and kicked the other arm at the elbow joint. Another crack and he was down, face to the floor.
She turned her back to him and went to her altar. She bowed deeply, reaching into the red silk folded on the little table. And when she turned again, the long metal spike was in one hand.
As she approached the Cobra her body flowed into a crouch. She leaned forward, reaching out with her left hand, the spike held next to her hip on the right. The Cobra looked up at her, brought his hand out from under his body and held it out palm up. In surrender.
Flood rocked back on her heels, a puzzled look on her face. And the Cobra struck. Scrabbling like a super-speed crab, he pushed himself off the floor with his one good leg and fired both hands at her throat.
Time stopped. I was watching the whole thing as if the room were full of crystal-clear Jello-everything in slow motion. His body was flat to the ground, his spine arched backward, his hands just about at her face when she brought her right hand around her hip and up into his exposed throat. Up on her toes now, but still in her crouch-the force of her strike lifted his upper body off the ground, where she held him, suspended, with her one hand.
Time froze them like that until her thighs flexed and she slowly straightened up-the Cobra, his throat still connected to her right hand by the spike, slowly rose with her. It seemed forever until Flood’s right arm shot forward, pulling the Cobra up like a rag doll, then flipping him straight back. His head hit the hardwood, and he was flat on his back-the handle of the spike sticking out of his throat.
I looked down at what was left of Martin Howard Wilson-his face contorted, locked forever into his last thoughts. The spike must have gone right through the throat and into his brain. The snake would never crawl again.
Flood was out of gas. I started to move to her before she fell, but Max quickly stepped forward, shaking his head no at me-she had to finish this herself. Max bowed his head and so did I-looking down at the dead Cobra-but not out of respect. I could see the muscles tremble slightly in Flood’s thighs, in spasm from the strain. One arm hung loosely, probably broken. Her expression: half-warrior who had survived a battle to the death, half-schoolgirl who had just gotten her heart’s ultimate desire.
Time passed. Flood’s breathing smoothed and her legs stopped trembling. She worked her head from side to side, ignoring the blood flowing down one cheek, then held out her hands and Max and I came to her and each took one.
We turned and walked to the altar. Flood knelt, took the Cobra’s mug shot, and I fired up a wooden match and handed it to her. She held the burning photograph in her hands, ignoring the fire as she had so many years ago in that room with Sadie. Only when the picture turned to paper ash did she rub her hands together. She wiped her hands on the red silk, wrapped the picture of Sadie and Flower inside its folds, and put it in her robe. She knelt again, said something in Japanese, I think. When she got to her feet her face was a bloody, discolored mess and her hands were burned-but the tears in her eyes were pure joy.
She bowed deeply to Max, spreading her hands as wide as they could go to show him the depth of her gratitude. Then she reached to her waist and pulled the bloody black jersey over her head. Standing naked from the waist up, she threw the jersey at the Cobra’s body, then took Max’s robe from her altar and handed it back to him. Max held his hands up, palms out-he spun his hands in a circle, refusing the return of his robes, telling her to put them on. Flood bowed again and wrapped herself in the robes. She searched through her duffel bag, found her own rose-colored silks, bowed to Max, held them open. Max took the robes with one hand, touched his heart with the other. They didn’t need words-he would no more wear her robes to dispose of the Cobra’s body than she would wear his to fight him.
Flood looked around the temple once more-taking it all in, memorizing it for life. Max clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against them. It was time for Flood to rest. She nodded and flowed into the lotus position on the temple floor, Max’s robes draped around her shoulders, pulling everything inside her.
Max and I left her there while we went to throw out the garbage.
