The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “What do you think, Sue? If we shoot him—”

  She shook her head violently. “That could attract attention.”

  I agreed with her. A shot might be heard in one of the dojos. Despite the storm.

  Sternway nodded. “What I would like to do,” he said in a speculative tone, gazing upward, “is drop him off the top catwalk. Make it look like an accident. We can dispose of the gun later. But I don’t think we can wrestle him up there. He’s too heavy.” He glanced down at me. “And he’s conscious. He’ll resist.”

  “Then we break his back,” Rasmussen announced harshly. “If we arrange him by the cage, he’ll look like he fell, killed himself.”

  “Good.” Sternway grinned at her. “Let’s do it.”

  “You’re serious,” Neill said. “You’re going to kill him.”

  “Because we have to,” she spat at him. “Get it through your head. We don’t have any choice!”

  “Oh.” He sounded shaken. “I see. OK.”

  “Finally!” Rasmussen didn’t disguise her exasperation. “Help me pick him up.”

  Neill ducked his head, defeated. “OK,” he said again.

  He came over to my right. She took the left. Clearly they didn’t expect their revered sensei to do any of the work.

  Together they manhandled me to my feet. When they had me upright, they turned me to face Sternway.

  He still stood in front of the cage, no more than six feet away. If I fell at him, I could butt him in the kneecap. The .45 rested in his hand like it weighed nothing, meant nothing.

  If he fired from this range, the slug would tear out half my back.

  I shut my eyes. I could feel my legs now. Jagged blades stabbed up and down my thighs and calves. The small of my back was a sodden mass of hurt. Parker may’ve injured one of my kidneys.

  But pain was a good thing. In a manner of speaking. As long as I felt it, I knew I wasn’t dead.

  “How shall we do this?” Rasmussen asked Sternway.

  “OK,” Neill said for the third time. He nodded to himself. “I have an idea.”

  Rain pounded like retribution onto the roof of the building. I reopened my eyes.

  He let go of me, and I nearly crumbled. Somehow I managed to lock my knees, keep myself upright. He put himself between me and Sternway. Between me and the .45.

  “How about,” he suggested, “we do this?”

  His left fist lashed out. His knuckles struck Rasmussen on the bridge of her nose. I heard it shatter.

  At the same time, his right forearm hacked at Sternway’s hand. At the .45. His left fist rebounded from Sue’s nose to punch at Sternway’s head.

  Sternway had trained her well. Parker caught her by surprise, yet his blow hardly cost her half a second. Then she flung herself after him.

  The .45 arced away, skidded across the concrete.

  Sternway blocked Neill’s punch, countered hard.

  I toppled myself like a stack of cinder blocks onto Rasmussen’s back.

  Parker wheeled aside, blocking furiously. Sternway went for him like a whirlwind.

  With my bulk crashing down on her, Sue couldn’t control her momentum, deflect herself, avoid—She didn’t even have time to get her hands up. Head first, she slammed into the utility cage.

  The heavy grate rang like falling rebar. I stumbled into it, hooked my fingers through the links to hold myself up. She bounced back a step or two, then folded quietly to the floor.

  Blood stained her face. I didn’t like the angle of her neck. It looked final.

  Sternway drove Parker backward. They exchanged blows like barrages, kicks with the impact of mortar shells. I’d never seen fighters move so fast, not even at the fight club. Concentration flamed in Neill’s eyes, rapt and consuming. But he was overweight, couldn’t match Sternway’s conditioning. And he lacked—

  Clinging to the cage, I turned. Pain thundered in the air. I couldn’t hear blows or breathing. I couldn’t hear desperation.

  —lacked Sternway’s eagerness for combat, the keen joy that lifted him out of himself and made killing easy.

  Frantically I searched the floor. As soon as I spotted the .45, I pitched forward onto my hands and knees, and began crawling toward it.

  Hell, it wasn’t more than twenty feet away. I could reach it easy. Fuck Sternway, I could reach it. Parker hadn’t broken my back. And pain was my friend, my oldest companion. Every shift of my knees and scrape of my palms hurt like rage. Like courage. And if it hurt like this, it had to be worth doing. Simply had to be. All I needed, absolutely all, was for Parker to hang on.

  Long enough.

  Sternway had killed Bernie. He’d killed Hong. For money.

  I wanted to shoot him straight in the head.

  I thought I heard laughter. “You’re slow, Parker.” Taunts. “You’re no fighter. You’ve always been slow.” Taunts and blows, hammered flesh. “I can take you whenever I choose.”

  “Show me,” Parker gasped.

  Halfway to the .45. Two thirds of the way.

  Hang on long enough.

  More jeering. “I’ll let you wear yourself out first. I want you to see it coming.”

  Fuck him.

  Pain was a good thing. Oh, yes. As good as rage. I wedged my legs under me, lunged into a dive.

  Landed hard.

  Rolled.

  Came up onto my knees with the .45 in both fists.

  Their struggle had taken Neill and Sternway over by one of the catwalk ladders. They were too far away. And too close together. Parker fought with his back to the wall now, defending frantically while Sternway inundated him with blows.

  I raised the .45 to fire a shot over their heads.

  Except I couldn’t. My fingers didn’t work right. Sternway must’ve hurt a nerve in my wrist. I couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Awkwardly I shifted the .45 to my left. It felt like a club, inert and too heavy to lift. I’d never be able to aim this way.

  I didn’t need to aim.

  The concussion nearly knocked me off balance. For an instant the storm and the fight fell silent, deafened by the blast. Then I heard the slug ricochet off concrete and spang into one of the catwalks.

  Involuntarily Parker turned his head to look at me—

  —and Sternway hit him in the solar plexus with a two-knuckled punch that dropped him like a sack of discarded clothes.

  Sonofabitch!

  I staggered to my feet, stood wavering with the .45 stretched out in front of me. “That’s enough,” I panted. “Don’t move.” When had my voice become so weak? “Don’t even think about moving.” I started toward him, lock-kneed and rigid, one step at a time. “You’ve already done too much harm. You won’t do any more.”

  Had anyone heard the shot? Even that demanding sound might not penetrate the walls and the storm.

  But if it did—

  More cannon fodder for the IAMA director.

  Shadows hid his expression. He glanced at Sue Rasmussen’s huddled body, then looked back at me.

  “Do it, Axbrewder.” He sounded like butchery. “Shoot me. If you don’t, I’ll tear your heart out through your ass.”

  Parker didn’t move.

  “Fuck you.” Some chances I had to take.

  I fired on the move, lurching through the recoil. I didn’t expect to hit him. All I wanted was to make him remain still until I got closer.

  Entirely by chance, my shot spalled a cinder block three feet from his head before it angled away, whining like a drill in granite.

  I saw outrage seize his face again, the recognition that he was trapped. I was willing to shoot him after all. And I must have a few rounds left. If he let me get close enough, he was finished. He couldn’t fight a bullet.

  And no one else would get hurt.

  Snarling, he turned and jumped for the ladder.

  I tried to hurry after him, but he was faster. By the time I’d covered enough distance to aim the .45 adequately, he’d already scrambled up to the second floor catwa
lk. There metal bars and railings protected him. He was out of my reach before he started up the next ladder to the top floor.

  Damn him. Damn him inside out and backward. I wanted him, but I’d never get him now. He still had his key, he could let himself into all four sides of the building. I’d have to try to intercept him before he gained an exit.

  If he doubled back while I hunted him, I’d never stop him.

  And if he didn’t, if he entered one of the schools and headed for the front door, he’d find innocent people in his way. Hideo’s students. Hong’s. Soon’s. I couldn’t tell myself that they’d all gone home by now. And Komatori and T’ang lived here. So did Soon.

  And if Sternway chose the unoccupied side, he’d encounter one of Soon’s black belts. Or Soon himself.

  More innocent people. More death.

  It was too much. I couldn’t let it pass.

  Coughing to clear my throat, I shouted, “Anson!”

  The rattle of his feet on the ladder stopped. I didn’t hear him clang along the catwalk.

  “Anson!” I had to cough some more. Fortunately I didn’t hack up blood. My kidneys hadn’t been damaged as badly as I’d feared.

  He didn’t answer—but he didn’t move either. Maybe he didn’t like his chances inside any of the dojos. If nothing else, someone would see him running away—

  “You beat Parker!” Parker still hadn’t moved. From my angle, he hardly seemed to breathe. “I saw that. But you can’t take me!”

  Sternway didn’t answer.

  Desperately I tossed the .45 so that it skittered across the floor into the white scowl of the floodlamps. Where he could see it.

  “I didn’t avoid fighting Hardshorn because I’m a coward! I did it because I wanted him alive. I wanted him to tell me who killed Bernie. If he hadn’t ambushed me, you’d already be in jail!”

  Abruptly Sternway leaned out over the railing, sneered down at me. “You’re lying, Axbrewder. You couldn’t take him with his head tied between his legs. You’ll need a platoon to take me.”

  I beckoned. “Come back down here. I’ll show you.”

  He snorted a laugh. “You come up. I’ll let you show me.”

  What, climb all the way up there? With misfiring nerves in my wrist, and bruises riding my kidneys? Just so he could kill me?

  What choice did I have? If just one more innocent karateka paid the price for my mistakes, I wouldn’t need Sternway to tear out my heart. I’d already mastered that surgical procedure for myself.

  “Fine,” I coughed up at him. “Just don’t rush me. I’m conserving my strength.”

  He grinned, a flash of eagerness. After a moment he moved away from the top of the ladder to the corner of the catwalk, where he could watch my progress without threatening me. A show of good faith. He meant to slaughter me in a fair fight.

  Somewhere during the past few hours, he must’ve lost his mind. Otherwise he would’ve paid more attention to his own survival.

  I was counting on that.

  First I knelt beside Parker, checked his pulse with my good hand. When I found it strong and steady in his neck, my heart gave a little leap of relief. He was still unconscious, but he wasn’t dying. I could risk leaving him while I challenged Sternway.

  I tugged off my jacket, dropped it over Parker to keep him warm. Then I raised my arms to the ladder and began to struggle upward.

  Which would’ve been impossible if Sternway had stomped on my wrist instead of kicking it. But my right hand began working better as I climbed. On the down side, Parker’s blows had left my legs as weak as a drunk’s. Nakahatchi had thrown me around the room hardly fourteen hours ago. Just last night Hardshorn had pummeled me nearly unconscious.

  Nevertheless this was the work I’d been born to do—the work of pain and endurance, the unforgiving task of standing in harm’s way. Today you believe you are ready because your pain has become greater than your anger, yet you are not defeated by it. That is important.

  It is necessary.

  If I didn’t understand anything else, I understood that.

  Instead of thinking about my hurts while I climbed, I concentrated on the clarity of unmarred rage—anger as cold and ready as black ice, and as fatal. Sternway had killed two innocent people. Plus Turf Hardshorn. He’d used my efforts to ease the tensions in Martial America as an excuse to break Hong’s neck and get Nakahatchi arrested. It didn’t matter how much I hurt. Or that I was scared almost witless.

  Only stopping him mattered.

  “What’s the problem?” Sternway crowed over me. “At this rate you’ll take all night.”

  I remembered Nakahatchi’s face, and Mitsuku’s, and went on climbing.

  Gradually I found more strength. My muscles worked out some of the congestion in my back. The fingers of my right hand tightened on the rungs. I began to make better progress.

  I wanted to rest when I reached the second floor, but I kept going. I was no match for Anson Sternway, I understood that. Nevertheless I had one advantage he couldn’t match.

  I knew I’d lost my mind.

  I knew why.

  “Come on, Axbrewder.” He still watched me from the corner of the catwalk. “I hate waiting.”

  What’s the matter? Getting nervous?

  I didn’t try to hurry.

  Finally I reached the top. By then my lower back felt like a bucket of lead clamped to my hips. I hauled it after me up onto the catwalk.

  Paused to gasp for air.

  This close to the skylights, the downpour sounded louder. Lightning leered across the darkness. But I could still hear the ragged labor of my heart. It drummed like panic in my temples, pounding out an autonomic message of terror.

  Sternway was going to kill me.

  Fuck that.

  He backed around the corner. With the fingers of one hand, he beckoned me forward. When I didn’t obey, he cocked his fists on his hips.

  “I hate to say this, Axbrewder, but you look pathetic. Don’t you ever exercise? I train harder than you do in my sleep.”

  I thought I knew why he backed up, why he wanted me to follow. To get me away from the ladder. So that I couldn’t escape—

  The bastard didn’t understand me at all. He had no clue.

  Panting from the pit of my stomach, I started after him.

  He retreated until he reached the middle of the catwalk, a step or two past the nearest fire door. I quickened my pace.

  But he ignored the door. Apparently the exit didn’t interest him.

  I slowed down. Still outside his kicking range, I wobbled to a halt.

  His eagerness had reached manic proportions. Light flashed off the whites of his eyes. He bounced gently on the balls of his feet, warming up to spurn gravity. His hands flexed like springs at the ends of his arms. Like fliks.

  “Speaking of carelessness,” I panted, “what makes you think you’ll accomplish anything if you do beat me?” The effort hurt my throat. “Have you forgotten that tape? Once they hear it, the cops will come after you. You won’t stand a chance. Not against the kind of manhunt they’ll organize.”

  He shrugged. His shoulders conveyed a hint of fever, urgency. “I’ll find the tape after I finish you. The police have no reason to suspect me. And Marshal Viviter has no evidence.”

  He smiled like the blade of a table saw. “The tape is in your apartment.”

  I shook my head speciously. “That’s not a mistake Sue would’ve let you make. You’ll have to do better.”

  He exploded at me as if I’d lit a fuse by saying her name.

  I tried to counter him as Nakahatchi had countered me, gently, without alarm. My right hand still felt stiff, so I held it up, covered my stomach with that elbow. My left hand I used open, striving to slip every high punch aside with my palm.

  Some of them I missed. Those ones landed like hammers. Whenever my elbow blocked his foot or his fist, the blow wailed along my nerves. With enough breath I might’ve wailed myself. Nevertheless this was my work, my work, an
d I didn’t back down from it. He forced me to retreat slowly, a few inches at a time, but the wall and the railing hampered him. He couldn’t swing kicks around at my head. For every blow that reached me, I stopped two.

  All I needed was a grip on him, one second with my fist closed in his sweatshirt. Then I could kick him, swing the toe of my shoe into his guts with every ounce of my bulk and fury behind it.

  When I got the chance.

  If I got it.

  I didn’t. He struck too hard, too fast. Too often.

  But the second, no, the third time his fist rocked my head, something changed. Instead of knocking me out, the impact seemed to translate me into a state that resembled Nakahatchi’s impregnable tranquility. Without transition I found myself in a place that held no anger and no fear.

  Pain no longer distracted or drove me, and I relaxed.

  I could move faster now. My left skidded his attacks away earlier. My elbow adjusted to deflect him more effectively. Fewer strikes made contact. Every breath came a bit more easily.

  If only Nakahatchi had given me one more lesson—

  Sternway felt the change. I saw it on his face. A new glee for combat flared in his eyes, ignited by eagerness. He stopped kicking, speeded up his punches. Put less force into each blow.

  I thought nothing, felt nothing. The explosive discharge of his fists consumed all of my attention, my whole world. Reality. The instant I allowed anything else to exist, anything at all, he’d break every bone in my face. And he wouldn’t stop there, oh, no, he’d go on breaking and breaking me until—

  Shit!

  —until I woke up enough to realize that I was wrong. He had no intention of breaking me. Not with his fists.

  Too late. Always too late.

  Suddenly he surged forward, ducking under my defense faster than I could react. In one fluid motion, he braced himself, hooked one arm under my right leg, clenched his other hand in the back of my shirt.

  And heaved.

  Walls and skylights and floodlamps reeled around me. The catwalk jumped away.

  In spite of my size, he tipped me over the railing.

  Flailing instinctively, I managed to hook my right elbow over the top rail somehow, catch the lower bar with my left hand. My entire weight snapped along the length of my body like the strike of a scourge.