Point of Impact

Michaels was right behind the books, though, and just quick enough to get a punch in on him before Tad could block it. No big deal, he would absorb that and crush the fucker.

His vision went out on the left side, just flashed red and… went away.

Tad frowned and backhanded Michaels, knocking him sprawling over the overturned couch. He put his hand to his face, and it came away covered with blood and some kind of clear gel. His mind made the connection.

The son of a bitch had ripped his eye out!

How?

Michaels came up, and Tad saw how he’d done it. He had a little knife in his hand. Looked like a claw.

Tricky shit, hiding that.

Well, fine. He’d just step in, break that fucking arm, and shove that little sticker up the man’s ass, that’s what—

Tad moved in.

Something hit him in the back, and he felt a stab of minor pain.

He reached around, realized the wife had thrown that fucking curvy blade and stuck it up in the middle of his back. He grabbed the thing by the blade, pulled it out, and brought it around in front of himself. The blade was black with funny little patterns in the steel. He waved it at the woman. “Thanks. Just what I needed.”

He turned in time to see Michaels come over the couch, that little knife leading.

Tad grinned. He still held the wavy knife by the blade, only a few inches of it sticking out, but he jammed the somewhat dull point at Michaels’s forearm, drove it into the muscle, felt it grate on bone, to stop only when his hand hit Michaels’s arm.

Michaels’s hand spasmed open. So much for his little claw.

But the knife didn’t fall, it was as if it was glued to his fucking hand.

Fine, fine. You want to play? Tad jerked his own weapon free, shifted his grip, and figured he’d just get a good swing and take the whole arm off. That would get rid of the little knife damned quick. After that, he’d just carve the bastard up in little chunks.

Michaels felt the kris go into his right forearm, felt the tip hit his radius and then slip past and saw it come all the way through, just an inch or so of the point sticking out.

His hand opened on its own.

Bershaw jerked the kris free and lifted it past his ear like an ax, and he knew the man was going to chop down. Knew with his maniacal strength, the man might cleave right though the muscle and bone and slice Michaels’s hand completely off.

But he had the other kerambit. And now he was close, inside, right where a silat serak player wanted to be when it all came down. He had one chance, maybe, and he took it. He lashed out in a punch at Bershaw’s neck, a short left hook, twisting his fist as he threw it.

The tiny blade of the kerambit bit into the right side Bershaw’s neck a couple of inches below the jaw and ripped a channel all the way to his Adam’s apple.

The man frowned and paused in his downstroke.

Michaels collapsed, just let his legs go limp. It was the fastest way to get clear, and as he fell, he punched with the knife again, scoring a nasty slash across Bershaw’s thigh, just below his groin.

Bershaw drew back his unwounded leg and kicked. His foot took Michaels in the side, just under the armpit, and he felt and heard ribs crack, a wet snap-snap that stole his breath.

Blood fountained from Bershaw’s neck, jetting out with each pulse, spewing with his trip-hammer-fast beat like a torn garden hose spraying water under pressure.

Bershaw kicked him again, but not as hard. Michaels managed to turn a little, so he caught it on the shoulder. Muscle tore, but he didn’t think the arm broke, even though the force of the kick turned him a hundred and eighty degrees around.

Michaels hooked his right foot behind Bershaw’s right ankle, then drove his left heel into the bloody cut on Bershaw’s thigh.

Bershaw lost his balance and fell backward, slamming into the couch.

Michaels rolled away and up. He held the kerambit in his left hand up point-first at Bershaw.

The right side of Bershaw’s body was soaked in blood from the carotid artery Michaels had sliced open. The blood still pulsed out, but much slower and with less force now.

Bershaw came up, grinned, and took two steps toward Michaels. But now it was his turn to move in slow motion.

Michaels stabbed at him. Bershaw put up an arm, and the blade scored a line from the wrist to the elbow, but it hardly bled at all.

Tad suddenly felt tired, so very tired. Yeah, he had to kill this guy, for Bobby, but as soon as he did that, he was gonna have to go sit down. The Hammer was slowing, he could feel it, and it wasn’t time yet. Not yet. Just this one thing left to do first, then he could take a break. Go see Bobby.

Bobby?

Something about Bobby…

Fuck it. Kill the guy, then worry about it.

* * *

Bershaw grabbed Michaels’s knife arm with both hands and squeezed.

Michaels felt his wrist crack, and in desperation he snapped his other elbow out in a horizontal shot, right out of djuru one, out in front of him like Dracula behind his cape, only with all his weight behind it. He hit Bershaw square on the temple.

* * *

Man! Who would have thought this guy could hit so hard? He’d have to tell Bobby about this.

But he felt so tired. So weak. It was so much trouble just to stand here, and why should he even bother?

The Hammer left him then, all by himself here with this stranger who hit him. The gray closed in on Tad.

Bobby? Is that you, man?

* * *

The light in Bershaw’s remaining eye flickered as he let go of Michaels’s arm and stumbled back a step.

Then the light went out, and Bershaw fell, a puppet with his strings cut.

Michaels turned and saw Toni, a book gripped in her hands, advancing toward them. In that odd interplay that sometimes happened in scary situations, he noticed the title of the book, and he started to laugh.

Toni stopped. “Alex? Are you all right?”

He waved at the book. “You were going to hit him with that?”

Toni looked at it.

It was How to Win Friends and Influence People.

EPILOGUE

Washington, D.C.

Michaels’s arm itched, and he wanted to tear off the plastic flesh bandage and scratch the cut. The surgical glue was holding the wound closed just fine, and he had pain medicine if he needed it, for the broken wrist that ached dully and the cracked ribs that hurt every time he breathed, but nothing seemed to help with the itching.

He sat in the kitchen nook at the table, looking at Toni as she came back from the fridge with a beer for him.

“Thanks,” he said. “You should have let me get that.”

“I’m in better shape than you, pregnancy notwithstanding.”

He took a sip, put the bottle down on the table.

“So what’s the latest from the office?”