Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Five steps.

  Closest point of contact.

  Four steps.

  Four seconds.

  ... Do something! ... Force him to react! ... Push him! ... Find out what he is!.

  NOW!

  Instantly Gage angled away, stepping off the sidewalk to walk towards the driver's side of the vehicle while thumbing the safety of the Hi-Power down, grip loosening on the bag.

  Gage knew that if the Japanese was a threat he would have to move now or ...

  A blur.

  MOVE!

  The Hi-Power came out and Gage fired two frantic shots at point-blank range that he knew had gone wide. The Japanese was on him. A blinding movement with an arm lashing out. Gage twisted to avoid the silver flicker that passed dangerously close to him to ... hit!

  Gage turned a half-step to the left, leaped back toward the sidewalk, and he knew the blade had not missed his arm. There was no pain, no sensation and no time to consider. But he knew it had not missed.

  Recovering instantly the Japanese turned and Gage raised the Hi-Power again. The Japanese, white flicker of the knife still held in one hand, pulled a large black pistol with his other hand, an automatic. They whirled face to face, distance of four feet.

  Two point-blank thuds from Gage's Hi-Power and the Japanese’s massive handgun erupted between them.

  An invisible baseball bat struck Gage in the chest, slamming him backward to the ground. A moment passed before he could think or pull a savage breath. Then he roared at the pain and rolled, stunned...

  Oh ... God!

  Gage reached for the Hi-Power, couldn't find it. Coughing, he rolled to his side, forgetting the pistol, trying to initiate escape and evade procedures. He ignored his chest, the vest. If he was hit, he would probably die. But if he didn't escape he would assuredly die.

  Breath gone, gone.

  Get it back, pull, you don't have much time! Get it together!

  Gage made it to his knees to see that the Japanese was down also, the magnum lost in the shadows. But the man had retained hold of his knife, the foot long blade protruding from the top of the fist.

  Blurring movement down the street.

  Blood hot and without blinking Gage reflexively shifted his eyes, identifying instantly: men. He focused: two men. Running towards him, automatic weapons in their hands. Not cops. Cops in civilian clothes wouldn't have automatic weapons.

  Threat!

  Forty seconds. Forty seconds before they arrived. An estimated two minutes before police. Barto was screaming, out on the street, running around the front of the vehicle. Gage groaned, brought one foot under him, began to rise.

  Cursing angrily, the Japanese also staggered up.

  Gage moved towards Barto, the car.

  A short burst of rounds from the men running towards them hit the LTD and Gage leaped back, away from the vehicle to avoid the pattern of fire. He hit the ground, sprawling, awkward, sliding to cut his palms on the concrete. Gage rolled up again to one knee, full rage rising, trying to control the chaos to assess what he was facing.

  The two men were thirty seconds away. Then suddenly the Japanese advanced towards him.

  Gage struggled up. Breath gone. Pain.

  Fight! Ignore the pain!

  Gage heard the LTD take more automatic fire from the oncoming men. Then Barto was shouting something, then diving into the car. In a second the engine of the LTD fired up. A portion of the windshield blew out and the car tore, screeching, away from the curb. Barto hung a hard left, crossing the street to roar away down an alley.

  Gage turned as the Japanese advanced, obviously hurt from the Hi-Power's round. But the fact that he had gotten up told Gage that the man was wearing a ballistic vest, just as he was. Blade low, the Japanese walked forward, face twisted in pain, the purest purpose of vengeful death in the directness of his approach. Grimacing from wounds as he gained his feet, Gage roared a primal challenge and pulled the stiletto from the sheath at his back. Sweat, blood in his eyes, he moved toward the Japanese.

  Nothing else now …

  Just this ...

  They quickened their steps, leaping forward as they met.

  A blinding exchange of light that flashed in, caught, swept back out, and empty hands followed the opponent's blade for a trap but the blades were too fast, the opponent too experienced, and the steel of each man passed in again, a bizarre clang of steel and then out, separating, missing a second time as each man leaped outside the other's reach.

  With a bellowing scream the Japanese whirled. Gage roared, knife flashing a feint, then blocked a savage blow to catch the Japanese in the leg with a kick. The Japanese countered, slipping outside the blow. Cold steel tore a passage through Gage's ribs. Sensing the injury but not feeling, Gage reacted instantly, smashing a fist into the man's face to knock him back. And Gage retreated, knowing the trauma of a quickening blood loss.

  Face confident, the Japanese recovered and advanced, feinting, testing and then suddenly bridged the gap to sweep his blade in a murderous backhanded slash. Gage had reacted to the feint but saw the blow and frantically jerked his head back as the blade ripped a path through the air in front of his throat. Then, before the Japanese could stop the momentum of his arm, Gage lashed out, his strength and the entire weight of his body behind the velocity of his blade, driving a straight knife-strike toward his opponent's chest.

  Reflex training alone drove his arm, powering a blow backed by countless days of brutal conditioning. Gage had learned that, in war, pure physical strength was often the simple, true divider between the living and dead. So he had made conditioning a foundation of his training, spending hours running, then lifting weights only to pound the heavy bag afterwards with punches and kicks for fierce, endless rounds. And, finally, when he had continued for as long as he thought he could continue, he would fall into a sort of mystical rhythm, pounding the bag, lifting weights until he couldn't move his arms, pounding and lifting more, and then moving back to the bag.

  And he had trained as he would fight, knowing that was where true perfection of movement would be found, at full speed with full power, never letting up, never pacing. Throwing everything, punch and weight, as if his life depended on each blow until unendurable fatigue separated his mind from the movement and the movement itself was all there was. And in achieving the absence of self Gage knew that he was training his body to fight for him without his conscious mind, forging a deep muscle memory that would execute a necessary move with killing efficiency even in a moment when he was too injured to think.

  Blasting beneath the Japanese's outstretched arm, Gage slammed the blade into his side, penetrating the ballistic vest with a slicing impact that a bullet could never match. Gage felt the blade strike bone, glance along the ribs.

  A savage grunt exploded from the Japanese and Gage grabbed the man's right forearm, the most easily controlled section of his opponent's knife-wielding right hand. But, reacting to the wound in his chest, the Japanese also grabbed Gage's knife hand. Gage tried to tear his wrist loose, managed to pull the blade clear of the man's ribs and vest, and twisted with a Herculean effort to stab downwards, trying for a femoral artery.

  The grip was unbreakable.

  Gage surged again, trying to tear his wrist loose.

  What ... STRENGTH!

  Eyes blazing inches from the other's face, they staggered in a tight circle, each trying to tear his knife hand free of the other's relentless grip.

  Gage pulled futilely, failed.

  It's over! Get it free or die!

  A screaming, superhuman effort and Gage frantically twisted his wrist against the man's thumb, inside and up, felt thin shreds of his skin tear off in the grip.

  Free!

  A split second. Gage shouted, hot and livid with the instinct and slashed inward to—

  A brutal front kick slammed into Gage's chest, knocking him back. Dazed, he crashed to the sidewalk before he groaned at the pain and rolled over, staggering numbly to his feet. He rose
, right-side forward with the right knife hand waist-high, eyesight centered by reaction training on his opponent's chest.

  In his shaken higher mind Gage realized that the kick had been inhumanly powerful, explosive, a sledgehammer blow that had numbed much of his upper body even beneath the throbbing pains of the magnum and the blade. But he couldn't assess the damage. His chest didn't feel right, but there was no time.

  Staggering, he circled to the left, feeling the wounds now, so many of them, trying to concentrate.

  The Japanese leaped forward, moving to Gage's left to cut off his movements, immediately eliminating three of Gage's best angles of attack. And Gage realized that he was facing a highly trained knife fighter, a man who by unconscious reflex automatically reacted with the perfect tactical movement.

  A master.

  *

  TWENTY

  The knife flashed in and out, and Gage felt the edge rip through his upper arm. Then the blade razored across his forearm, drawing another deep wound, and Gage lashed out with the stiletto, missed, kicked, and swept the Japanese off balance.

  Ignoring his numb, bleeding left arm, Gage circled to the left, cutting off three angles of attack that the Japanese might use.

  A master knife fighter’s mind reacts in combat much like a computer, instantly factoring complicated circles and angles of movement, immediately altering a counter with each tactic of the opponent to formulate another complex series of movements, setting the mind for an attack that remains five to six strokes in advance of where the bodies are poised at that moment to constantly prepare a counterattack to match the most minute shift or change of his opponent's status.

  Mind speed is essential because once an opponent initiates a movement it is mentally impossible to devise a reaction if the general pattern of counterattack has not already been preselected.

  Change is constant, the lower mind instinctively designing responsive reactions while high reason searches for angles that will penetrate an opponent's defensive shield. Both opponents attempt to test speed, probe defensive skills, design attacks and counters, and psychologically intimidate the enemy while simultaneously dancing back and forth at a distance outside their opponent's arm reach—the kill zone.

  Unless a dramatic decision is made to bridge the gap, both men attempt to stay outside the kill zone but close enough to close the distance with a quick leap, slipping their opponent's guard to strike a blow. The greatest danger comes in closing the gap, and the danger stays high for every second fighters remain within the kill zone because physical, responsive reflex is always slower than the initiation of an opponent's movement.

  It is commonly accepted that anyone, no matter how skilled or quick, can be hit at close range. And if an opponent is holding a knife, even one blow is sufficient for defeat. So the ability to bridge the gap, strike and separate successfully without suffering severe damage, is a highly valued area of expertise with knife fighters.

  In the end, an opponent need not even strike an enemy's vital organs to finish the conflict. More often, an encounter between master knife fighters ends with one opponent going into shock from moderate blood loss sustained through venous cuts—a result most easily accomplished by striking a deep wound upon an enemy's arm, just deep enough to reach major veins. Once the bleeding begins, shock is no more than six minutes away and will itself terminate the encounter. Then for opponents satisfied only to end the combat in death, shock will incapacitate so that an easily executed killing blow to the neck or chest can be delivered.

  Forearms are frequent targets, easier than the chest or neck, and are focused upon. Also, arms and wrists are much more easily reached without entering the kill zone or exposing a vital body part to attack. And once an opponent's wrist is deeply cut he can no longer hold a knife, becoming virtually helpless. In knife fighting this tactic is called "defanging the snake."

  Without fangs, a snake is easy prey.

  A wash of fatigue came over Gage, a quickening blood loss, thinning the adrenaline rush that was only barely keeping him above shock. He felt the pain, exhausted breath blasting hot from his chest, and struggled to hold it together. His peripheral vision was gone, tunnel vision all that remained. Over the Japanese's shoulder he glimpsed the two men running towards him, faces panicked, weapons visible.

  Ten seconds out.

  Move!

  ... He's too close to escape ... Injure him and then break ... Take a bullet in the back but don't—

  Screaming, the Japanese leaped.

  No time!

  Sweeping the blade inside, the Japanese closed and Gage quick-stepped to the left, reached across with his left hand to try a trap of the man's right forearm and swept his dagger, still held in his right hand, across the Japanese's wrist. But the Japanese saw, changed the movement, pulling back the direction of his forearm.

  An incredible explosive twist and the Japanese whirled, spinning his body to sweep the blade in a tight half-circle with all his weight behind it.

  A wild turn down and away saved Gage's throat, the blade seeming to slice across his back.

  Then Gage threw himself wildly back, off balance, trying to gain distance, but the Japanese was lightning, leaping on top of him, bearing Gage to the ground, roaring, laughing, an unstoppable force conquering him, and Gage saw white fear because this was it and saw Sarah because he had failed...

  "Sato!" a tall man screamed, collided against them, throwing the Japanese to the side.

  Gage crashed awkwardly to the sidewalk, blade still in his hand. But he couldn't rise, blood loss increasing fast, pale shock descending hard. Blackness fading in from the edges.

  Shouting above him, a chorus of shouts with the Japanese advancing and one of the men standing over Gage, shouting back at... Sato... with an authoritative, British accent.

  "Schnell!" Gage heard a voice above him.

  A foot pinned Gage's wrist, twisted the knife from his grip. Gage's eyes flickered open, focused, saw the one who had spoken— a German, blond, the muscular kind that the Polizei preferred for riot control; strong, fast, a manhandler.

  "Let's get out of here!" the German shouted, panting, face in sweat. "Get the backpack!"

  Gage heard a car slide to the curb beside him.

  Something cold was being wrapped around his wrists. With an effort Gage lifted his head, glared down. Standard handcuffs, police issue. His hands were cuffed in front of his body. Dazed, he rolled his head to the side, saw a beige Cavalier. Then he was lifted, carried quickly, and thrown haphazardly into the backseat. Through a thick overlaying of fatigue and shadowy, glossy blankets of abysmal pain Gage heard a quick debate, a somehow familiar man in the passenger's seat arguing fiercely for more restraints, the driver shouting: "No need, he's hurt too badly."

  Then the car roared away from the curb, driving quickly through the night.

  Orienting slowly, Gage identified a sound, a siren, and in a minute saw flashing red and blue lights pass the car, headed in the other direction, the direction they had just left. He remembered the chaos, the confusion.

  Ten minutes, the car driving steadily. Gage felt the blood loss taking him. He fought it, concentrated, slowing his breath, attempting to reduce the level of oxygen in his system, still the shock as best he could. He closed his eyes, tried to rest, saw black holes zooming away from his vision, the sides spinning in spotted pale-black circles. The car rocked back and forth on the uneven road.

  Vomit erupted into his mouth, hot with bile. Grimacing, Gage clenched his teeth, refusing to release, held it, concentrating. He swallowed. It returned, hot and hating. Grimly he held his mouth closed, lips tight, swallowed again.

  Breathe hard. Tired.

  Not yet.

  “How badly do you want to live?”

  Barto had left him, but there was Sarah... Malachi...

  Discreetly, Gage tried to slide his wrists out of the cuffs, tried to pull steadily, drawing the steel over the hands. He would peel off his flesh if necessary, anything, just to get fr
ee. The steel bit into his hands, sharp, pain, too much pain. Gage pulled harder, the pain too much, sharp shooting pain breaking his concentration, his strength, his will.

  He let go.

  This is too much. Too much. Can't take it.

  Gage relaxed, breathless, faint.

  There's got to be a better way.

  Seatbelts!

  Yes!

  He had learned the technique somewhere he couldn't remember.

  It didn't matter.

  Gage felt for the metal tongue of the seatbelt beneath him. Choosing not to reach, he attempted to identify it by body pressure. If he could just get his hands on the chrome metal locking plate, with its square hole cut into the quarter-inch steel, he could snap one of the tiny steel pins that attached the handcuff chain to the wristlocks. It would snap at the wrist with only 20 pounds of vertical pressure.

  Then Gage felt it, directly beneath him, the cold steel plate of the seatbelt lock pressed against his T-shirt. He rested a moment, calculating.

  Once he got his hands on it, it would take at least ten seconds of twisting at the pin before it snapped, provided he had that much strength remaining. But if the guy in the passenger seat saw him move, identified what he was doing, he was dead. A bullet in his head.

  Exhausted, not knowing what to do, Gage closed his eyes and rested.

  After a minute he felt unconsciousness claiming him. He shook his head, opening his eyes to fight it off. He focused on the man in the passenger seat. The tanned face looked left, stared down at him. Gage wondered what kind of pathetic sight he was lying there, bloodied and beaten, waiting for death. The man appeared worried, and Gage recognized the face – a face from his past.

  Someone he had known. But the name wouldn't come to him.

  Only pain, the cold of shock.

  Gage counted the seconds, breathing steadily, still staring at the man's head. He rested, allowing his physical conditioning to assert itself, letting his body adjust to the overwhelming pain, the wounds, the rapidly increasing blood loss that would soon throw him into unconsciousness. In a few minutes, he knew from experience, he would be out. But before that, if he rested, he could gain one last surge of energy, even if it was from will alone.