Stand Your Ground Hero

by Paul Duffau

  Hunter also faded to normal. The hatred he bore Mercury combined with fear. For an instant too brief to measure, Hunter let slip an expression of feral cunning. It vanished like lightning, here, gone, with only the seared afterimage to prove it existed at all.

  A pit formed in Mitch’s stomach. For the first time, he saw the real Hunter, one capable of murder. The rants about Meat were earnest. Hunter seriously would eliminate all the regular people on the planet so the wizards could reign like gods. After Mercury, Mitch had a good idea who was at the top of Hunter’s list of people to consign to oblivion.

  “Mitch.” Mercury glared at him. “Quit the wool-gathering. Go stand next to Kenzie.” Mitch opened his mouth to protest. Mercury shut him down. “Do it. She can’t protect us spread out this far. And hit the button for the door on your way.”

  Great. Now he was hiding behind a girl. He hit the button as instructed. The door rattled and screeched open. Self-consciously, he moved to a position a foot behind Kenzie. Her usual sweet scent was missing. She emitted a bitter odor of stress and sweat. He sniffed. So did he. Only Mercury seemed to be in his element. There was another odor, vaguely familiar. When the identification came, it confused him. Wuffie was somewhere near.

  The wizard backed away from the boy on the ground. A rapid twirl of fingers loosened the magical bonds. Hunter rubbed his arms to restore vigor. Putting his palms on the ground, he launched himself to his feet. With enormous self-control, he knocked the worst of the dust off his clothes. His lips were a thin line, curled down at the corners, his eyes hot embers.

  Silent, he met each of their gazes in turn. Mitch absorbed the promise it contained without flinching. Hunter spun on a heel and stalked out. Three steps from his BMW, back turned to them, he shoved his hand up, middle finger extended. He closed his fist, punched up.

  Thunder rolled down on them as Hunter sped away.

  Chapter 31

  Jules looked past Kenzie to take in both Jackson’s stance and Mitch’s hyperprotective attitude. A flash of concern dimmed her demeanor like a cloud shrouding sunlight on a serene mountain, turning it gloomy. The studio was cool and semi-dark with the lights off. Kenzie had practically begged Jules on the phone to open early, and she’d agreed. Kenzie tried to recall the last time she’d seen her instructor in street clothes.

  “I need to hit something.”

  Jules unpursed her lips long enough to take a long slug of coffee. “No, you want to hit something.”

  “Same diff.” Kenzie skipped waiting for permission and lugged her gear bag to the changing rooms. In record time, she was barefoot and into her dobok. She cinched the red belt tight to close the jacket as she kneed the door open.

  Jules took stock as she came out.

  Kenzie figured she’d better own up before she got busted. “I invited Mitch.” A lie. He’d refused to leave her side while Hunter was so pissed. He’d acted as a rearguard, following Jackson’s Audi in his Camaro to the dojang. Whenever they stopped at lights, Kenzie could feel the bass rumble of Mitch’s car in her chest. She knew better than to suggest she ride with Mitch, as much as she wanted to. Someday.

  “You did, did you? You want to tell me what’s going on, or am I just another piece of furniture you boss around when you want to?” Jules raised a sculpted eyebrow at Jackson to remove any offense. Jackson’s expression never changed, but his eyes never stopped moving, assessing potential threats.

  “I need to talk to him, and it’s safe here.” The latter half of her statement slipped out without her meaning to be so revealing, both of the implicit threat that Hunter made and her feeling of the studio—and Jules.

  “Awfully needy this morning, girl.” The instructor sipped more coffee. “Spill it.”

  Kenzie sucked in a deep breath and dove into her explanation. “I like it when he’s around, but my folks don’t approve of him. He’s not, you know, prep school material. And some stuff has come up, so we need to talk. Jackson will be right there with us.” It sounded lame when she said it out loud.

  The lips were pursed tight again. “Go warm up on the heavy bag.”

  Jules wasn’t buying what Kenzie was shoveling, but wasn’t throwing her out, either. Kenzie bowed and trotted to the far end of the studio. In the space of five minutes, the anger fueling the kicks and punches to the heavy bag petered out. She focused on technique. The regular percussive thuds echoed in the dim space. Breathe, move, strike. She completed a set of side kicks, a dozen for each leg.

  Combinations, jab, jab, straight punch. Tat, tat, whap. She lost power on the punch, so she repeated the cycle, transferring power from her feet, legs, opening the hips just a split second later. The bag jumped on the punch.

  Fifteen minutes into the workout, she was drenched in sweat. Her limbs felt lively and loose. Time for a water break. She wheeled around to tell her instructor. Searching, she spotted Jules through the glass window her office. Mitch was in there with her, and the two were locked deep in conversation. He must have snuck in while she worked the bag.

  Kenzie sped across the floor, made a lousy bow to exit, and headed for the office, focused on the silent exchange within. Mitch said something, nodding agreement as he did. Jules sat back in her chair as though thinking. A rare wry smile vanished from Jackson’s face as Kenzie barreled past. “Hey,” she said from the doorway, hitting the jamb with her shoulder in her haste.

  Mitch stood up. “Hi,” he said. To Jules, “I appreciate you allowing me to come in. I know it disrupts things.”

  His eyes were drawn to the picture behind her, of young Jules, sitting cross-legged and meditating. He cocked his head to the right, and Kenzie braced herself.

  “How did you learn not to be angry all the time?”

  Kenzie cringed. Her second-worst fear with him was that he couldn’t help himself, just had to ask questions and poke and prod. He was incredible and exasperating at the same time.

  Jules stared at him, flummoxed, the first time Kenzie had ever seen that expression on the black belt’s face. “You get that from what?”

  Mitch jerked his head to the picture. “In the picture, you’re angry. It’s like a suit of armor. Now you aren’t?”

  Jules regained her composure. The serene intensity that Kenzie wished she could have replaced the surprise. “Not armor, exactly. An addiction. Anger can lead you past terrible pain, can even fuel you to great things, but like any drug, it will eventually kill you.” Jules appraised Mitch. “It took a lot of years to learn that, to let the pain make me stronger, to accept the bad things.” She stopped, drew a sad breath. “To accept who I was. There’s no twelve-step program for us, they’re all bogus. We find our own paths, run our own races.”

  Kenzie’s jaw dropped at the blatant honesty. Two red circles burned on Mitch’s cheeks as though the sorrow-filled words slapped at him. Kenzie had no idea what to say. Neither did Mitch. For once, he kept his trap shut.

  Jules took the burden of a reply away with an order. “Out to the floor, Kenzie.”

  The woman met her barefooted, still dressed for a day outside. She rolled her head in a circle and loosened her shoulders. “You said you needed to hit something. Here I am.”

  “What?”

  In the blink of an eye, Jules’s hand crossed the space between them. Kenzie’s left cheek stung and her hands came up on reflex. “You hit me!”

  “On purpose, even.” Jules glided away at an angle. “Mr. Jackson, please sit back down.”

  Kenzie spun to the spectator section, but her intuition made her duck. Just in time, she got her head down. The kick that Jules unwound toward her head the instant Kenzie turned went harmlessly high. Kenzie sprinted backwards four steps, keeping both adults in view. “What the heck.” Her voice shook.

  Jackson stood ready to hurdle the wall. Mitch sat, chin in his hand, observant.

  “Mr. Jackson, she is my student and my responsibility within this dojang.”

  Jackson struggled with his decision. He calmed his face and nodded once, unhapp
ily, in assent.

  “Hit me,” said Jules. She stalked forward. Kenzie measured her reach and backpedaled.

  “I don’t want to hit you.”

  Jules answered with a wicked fast combination that left another mark, this time on Kenzie’s thigh.

  “Hit me.”

  “No!”

  “Then at least protect yourself.”

  Kenzie was prepared this time. Her forearms took the brunt of the attack, the blows arriving like the meaty part of a baseball bat in the hands of a major leaguer. “Why?” she asked between pants.

  “You lied to me.”

  Kenzie put space between them, lots of space. The only thing she’d said was about Mitch. “I didn’t lie. I told you I can’t talk to Mitch because of my folks.” Desperation lent the words speed.

  Like a jaguar hunting prey, Jules approached. Kenzie backed up. She was nearly in the corner of the studio. She curled out before she could get trapped. Too close. Another attack, high combinations aimed at her head, and Kenzie oomphed as a front kick caught her in the solar plexus. She folded but kept her head up, kept her hands in front of her.

  Jules dropped her hands to a low ready position. She circled to cut Kenzie off from the exit.

  Kenzie dropped her hands, too. She retreated. “He’s not one of us so they hate him, but the only thing he’s guilty of is acting like a stupid hero and breaking up the abduction.”

  Jules’s hands paused for a split second. “Abduction, huh?”

  “Kenzie, that’s enough.” Anger crowded Jackson’s words into a bunch.

  “Mr. Jackson, it is still my school. Desist.” She didn’t look at Jackson when she spoke. Her eyes bored into Kenzie’s. “That was not the lie.”

  “Then what is?” Hot tears trickled down Kenzie’s face. She dropped her hands. “I don’t know what you want. You want to beat me up? Go ahead.”

  “McKenzie Graham, do you want to hit me?”

  The formality of her name and the emphasis at the end of the question brought Kenzie up short. In a lightning moment of recognition, she saw her lie. “No,” she whispered. “Not you.”

  “Now we have a truth.”

  Her lower lip was between her teeth. Kenzie bit on it hard. Blinking furiously, she turned her back on Jules.

  “Break.” The traditional command at the end of a sparring session.

  Kenzie sniffled. Hands landed on her shoulders and with gentle pressure spun her wobbly body around. Arms engulfed her, pulling her close. Kenzie averted her face and leaned away. “Go get a drink,” Jules murmured. “When you come back onto the floor, we’ve some more work to do.”

  Kenzie kept her head down as she padded across the wood. She avoided Mitch as much as she could, tucking her chin to her chest. Her water bottle sloshed when she tilted it and guzzled a quarter of it. Hands shaking, she put it back into her bag, and for the barest moment, considered leaving. In the same instant, she knew she’d never be allowed back if she did. Ever.

  She bowed back onto the floor.

  Jules glanced past her. “Mr. Meriwether, may I borrow you?”

  Kenzie snapped her head around. Mitch looked as surprised as she felt, his eyes incredulous. Jackson wore concern like a gray cloud on a winter hillside.

  Jackson stood, inclined his head in a show of respect to Jules, and said, “He’s trained a bit with me for self-defense, but not in a formal setting.” He rolled muscular shoulders. “We skipped the niceties of kata and competition sparring.”

  Mitch shifted in his seat. He saw her watching him, and shrugged as if to say no big deal.

  Professional curiosity overcame Jules. “Which styles are you trained in, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Formal styles, jujitsu, krav maga, muay thai.”

  “And informal?”

  Jackson stood mute and, to Kenzie’s eyes, quite a bit more dangerous than before. And Mitch had been training with him? Stone-faced, Mitch watched the exchange between the two adults.

  “I see,” Jules said, taking in Jackson’s reticence. “May I borrow Mr. Meriwether anyway. I need a live target for Kenzie.”

  Mitch didn’t wait for Jackson’s approval. He jerked up to his feet and made a beeline for the entrance to the workout floor.

  “Take off your shoes, please.”

  Mitch rocked to a stop to comply. He kicked his running shoes off. “Socks, too?”

  “Why do I need a live target?”

  Jules answered Mitch. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to have you standing in place.”

  “Why do we need Mitch?”

  “McKenzie, go get a blindfold. Mr. Meriwether, come stand beside me.”

  Kenzie’s mind boggled. Jules was going to have her targeting on Mitch with a blindfold on? If she screwed up . . . She took her time walking back. The black cloth she carried trailed her, a snake dragged by its tail.

  Impatience curled Jules’s mouth at Kenzie’s delaying tactics. “Hustle up.” Once Kenzie joined them, she said, “Mitch, stand right here. Please do not move, not even a fraction.” She sought confirmation and got it in the form of a terse nod. “You can drop the blindfold for now, Kenzie. Your goal is touch contact. Your target is the base of Mitch’s nose. Palm strike, dominant hand.”

  Mitch’s eyes widened, and he took a long breath.

  “This is nuts,” Kenzie blurted.

  “When you are sabomnim, you can decide that.” There was no compromise in Jules’s tone.

  Kenzie took her position in front of Mitch, left foot forward, right hand loosely curled. The palm strike was an open-hand technique that used the heel of the hand to deliver the blow. Done right, it was devastating. The base of the nose was an ideal target for a shorter person, because it allowed the attacker to engage from the legs, through the hips, into the shoulder, ending in a violent straight-line attack as the palm reached the target. It also minimized the potential of breaking knuckles, a hazard for a punch.

  Kenzie wavered. I don’t want to. Her imagination ran ahead of her, projecting an image of Mitch bleeding from a broken nose because her control wasn’t good enough. Or missing teeth if she hit a little low. Her skin stretched tight and white over the knuckles.

  “Half speed, practice strike from a back stance, eyes open.”

  All her instincts protesting, Kenzie followed Jules’s directions. The heel of her hand stopped two full inches from Mitch. Over her curled fingers, she saw his eyes nearly cross as they tracked the progress of the simulated attack.

  “Touch contact,” Jules chastised.

  It took four attempts, even at half speed, to get it right, and beads of nervous sweat broke out on Kenzie’s forehead. Each time, she came a little closer, until finally she delivered a feather-light caress to Mitch’s face. He flinched under the contact, jaw locked and eyes held steadfastly forward.

  It’s not just a test for me, she realized. A glance at Jackson revealed a worried strain to his face. It wasn’t just her. He saw it, was letting it happen.

  “Full speed.”

  Pressure built in Kenzie’s chest. She tried to catch Mitch’s eyes, but he stood like a man awaiting a firing squad, stoic in the face of Jules’s unreasonable demands. He knows it’s a test, too. The level of trust Mitch showed her just by standing in made her eyes water. She blinked and cleared them. She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin, focused on the target. She pivoted through her hips and the strike missed, badly, well short of Mitch, as all the muscles in her arm spasmed to prevent impact.

  “Again. This time don’t short-arm the strike. Stay in the moment, not the future.”

  Without looking at her, Mitch dropped his chin in sharp agreement. “Do it.” His voice carried more confidence than she felt.

  Kenzie swallowed, took a deep breath, and forced herself to relax. Her chest expanded again. She drew in tranquility with the air, down to her core, and let the focused feeling spread to the rest of her body. One more breath, and Kenzie attacked, hand lashing upward with a shout. “Kai!” The meat of her palm mad
e faint contact with the top of Mitch’s lip and the tip of his nose, as close to a perfect strike as Kenzie had ever executed. Mitch blinked repeatedly but stubbornly held his gaze over her head. Knots stood at his jaw as her arm withdrew.

  “Again.” Jules made her deliver the technique four more times.

  “Now, with the blindfold.”

  The calm that Kenzie had cultivated dissipated like a vapor to be dispersed by a gust of wind. In its place came a chilling dread that threatened to freeze in place. She stared mutely at her instructor.

  “I should not have to tell you twice,” said Jules. “Our agreement for you to re-enter the school was that you would follow my instructions.”

  Kenzie clamped down on her teeth to keep them from chattering. She gave a formal half bow of submission. “Yes, ma’am.” She picked up the black cotton cloth. Tying the knot behind her head almost defeated her, but she finally managed it. “How do I know where to aim?” Behind the mask, she winced at the shaky sound of her voice. Confidence, she thought, hoping that she could force it into being by sheer will. Her doubts proved stronger.

  “Take your stance, McKenzie, and very slowly emulate the technique. Once you’ve reached full extension, I will place Mitch in position.”

  Kenzie did as directed, unfolding like a flower reluctant to meet an uncertain dawn.

  “Mr. Meriwether?”

  Kenzie heard his feet shuffle forward until his face touched her outstretched hand.

  “Slowly, again. Good, again. Half speed.”

  Sweat dripped between the blindfold and her face, tickly. Kenzie wanted to snatch the cloth away, wipe her face. She banished the thought as it formed. No distractions, not now.

  “Seek your center, first. Then, full speed.”

  You’ve done this a dozen times now, girl. Breathe, breathe. . . .

  Her next awareness was an infinitesimal touch against her palm, Mitch’s breath warming her hands as he let go of pent-up air. Pride swelled. I did it!