Blowback

by James P. Sumner

  I head out into the corridor again. Logic would suggest Queen Miley is on the bridge. So that’s where I’m heading.

  This ends now.

  31

  23:27 JST

  I slow as I reach the door to the armory, remembering the two guys I saw in there earlier. Holding the SMG in one hand, keeping it low, I pin myself against the wall and edge forward, stopping as I reach the doorway. I place a hand on the door and slowly push it open, leaning around as the gap widens, ready to shoot if necessary.

  The room gradually reveals itself. Racks of weapons—assault rifles, submachine guns, pistols… even an RPG. Jesus! No sign of life, though. I bring my gun up as I step inside, immediately turning to look behind the door.

  The room’s empty.

  I take a moment to look around. This place has everything! Maybe Kazawa leaving the safety of his penthouse to come here wasn’t such a stupid idea after all. Well… it was , clearly, but at least his logic was sound.

  As I turn to head back outside, I see a belt of grenades resting on a small table in the corner just inside the room.

  Interesting.

  I leave and continue along the corridor, heading for the stairs at the far end I presume lead up to the bridge. I have the SMG held ready, keeping it low, by my hip. As I begin the climb, I turn and move backward, allowing me to see behind the stairwell above me, and to the sides, making sure no one is waiting to blow my head off.

  It seems clear.

  I turn slowly as I reach the top, looking around the room as I—

  Oof!

  Ah!

  Whoa!

  …

  …

  …

  Shit!

  I fall back, losing my grip on my weapon. There was a guy to the right of the stairs, set back just ahead of me. He kicked my gun hand away and got a couple of solid shots to my body before I even realized I was in a fight.

  Bastard.

  I forget the gun. I scramble to my feet in time to block another kick aimed at my left side, just above the hip. I leaned into it, bending my arm so he kicked the point of my elbow.

  Still hurt, but had it connected properly, it would’ve dropped me for sure.

  I’m assuming this guy is one of the two from the armory. I need to remember he has a friend somewhere.

  He swings a wild left at my head as he retracts his leg. I move right, ducking under it and countering with a right hook. The guy leans back, and I hit nothing but air. As I follow through, I feel a short uppercut connect with my ribs, which staggers me back again.

  Fuck me…

  Either this guy’s lightning fast, or I’m just slow and tired.

  Or both.

  Whatever the case, I can’t waste my time and energy fighting him.

  I’m down on one knee, nursing my chest. He’s a few feet away, composing himself and smiling like someone who knows he’s winning.

  I take a quick look around as I suck in one painful breath after another. This is an open area, which I’m guessing is used for navigational purposes. There’s a large table dominating the left side of the room, parallel to the stairs, with an assortment of maps and paperwork spread across it. Behind the railing that surrounds the opening of the stairwell is a door that must lead outside. On the opposite side is another door, stood open, with a small corridor beyond that doglegs left.

  I assume that’s the bridge.

  The main issue I have is this guy standing in my way.

  I slowly get to my feet and step back into a loose fighting stance. His smile broadens, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

  I try to block out the pain. Urge my brain to ignore it and focus on something useful. Like my training. Which is extensive and lethal.

  What do I know?

  This guy likes his kicks. His punches are effective but less disciplined. Both require space to throw them. Which means I need to close the gap.

  I look him up and down.

  He’s light on his feet and has a confident fighting stance. His guard is competent, suggesting training. No gun, which is strange but a blessing. He’s shorter than me, younger than me… definitely faster than me. His power comes from technique, not from brute strength. If I can take away his ability to execute his technique…

  I step toward him. He moves to meet me but hangs back, clearly looking to maintain the distance he needs. But this time, I skip a couple of paces and close the gap, leaving just a few inches between us. He drops his shoulder, preparing to throw a hook to my left side. But this time, I’m close enough that he’ll miss if he swings it. I don’t know if he’s realized that, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m too close. Speed and technique mean nothing if my hands are around your throat.

  As he throws his hip into the punch, I lean into him, grabbing his throat with my left hand and pulling on the back of his jacket with my right. He loses his balance as I push and pull him into position against the railing of the stairs.

  I force him back, causing his spine to bend over the railing by applying more pressure to his throat. Then I bring a knee up, slamming it into his stomach. He wheezes as the air leaves him, but the position of his body makes it hard for him to catch his breath.

  I knee him again, this time allowing him to keel over. I drop to one knee, smashing the point of my elbow into the base of his skull on my way down. He flattens out on the floor. I’m breathing hard from the exertion, but I can’t stop now. I need to finish this, to make sure I have one less enemy to worry about.

  I reach down and drag him upright with both hands. He’s barely conscious, and it takes a lot of effort to hold him steady. I place one hand on his head and grab a fistful of jacket with the other. Then, with every ounce of strength I can muster, I slam him face-first into the railing.

  The crack of his cheekbone smashing is sickening.

  His face immediately swells, discolored from the impact.

  I toss him unceremoniously over the railing. He lands headfirst on the metal stairs before rolling into a motionless heap at the bottom.

  I breathe a heavy sigh of relief, which hurt way more than it should.

  That took more effort than I realistically had the strength for, which means dealing with Miley will now be that much harder to do.

  I focus on my breathing as I try to regain some composure. It doesn’t matter though. She has to die tonight. No one does to me what she did and gets away with it. I need her gone, so I’m not running and fighting for the rest of my life. I need her gone, so Ruby isn’t, either. But I have to admit, this is feeling more and more like a one-way trip right now.

  I turn to head for the doorway I’m hoping leads up to the bridge and see another guy pacing with vicious intent toward me.

  My shoulders slump forward with momentary resignation.

  Christ.

  I look him in the eye. I see a knife in his hand.

  Well, you can fuck off.

  I take one step toward him and swing my leg out as if kicking a forty-yard field goal. I connect so completely with his balls that his pelvic bone hurts my foot.

  Probably not as much as he’s hurting right now, though.

  He stops dead in his tracks and drops the knife. His eyes bulge. He leans over and vomits, then sinks to his knees, clutching his groin with both hands. I wince out of sympathy before taking another step and smashing my knee into his face. I feel the thin cartilage buckle beneath the impact. He slumps to the side, unconscious and bleeding from what’s left of his nose.

  I take a quick look around, but the lighting is poor in here. I can’t see the SMG I dropped anywhere.

  Screw it. I have one bullet left. Luckily, it’s got Miley’s name all over it.

  I walk over to the doorway opposite, climb the few steps, and follow the short corridor around to the left. No more than a few feet, and I see the bridge in front of me. There’s no door, just a threshold. From here, it appears empty.

  Huh.

  I move to the doorway and take a look around. There’s
a door directly opposite, which leads outside. On my left is the large window that overlooks the main deck. The remains of the speedboat are still burning nicely. The flames cast a flickering, hellish glow across the boat, highlighting certain features while enhancing the shadows around others.

  No sign of movement that I can see.

  On my right is the helm—a large, chrome wheel surrounded by a dashboard and control panels with a walnut finish. Another large window looks out at the ocean ahead. Despite the light flooding from the front of the boat, visibility is poor. Nothing but a vast expanse of dark.

  I don’t know where Miley is, but—

  Huh?

  Oh, fuck!

  …

  …

  …

  Ooof!

  Ah, shit…

  What the hell was that?

  I’m on my back, out in the short corridor, hurting everywhere and looking up at the doorway to the bridge as Miley drops down.

  She must’ve had herself pinned flat up there, just above the doorway, where I wouldn’t have picked her up in my peripheral vision. She swung down and planted both feet firmly into my chest, the impact of which, coupled with the surprise, sent me flying backward.

  Christ. She’s like a fucking ninja.

  She stands over me, staring down with a sick smile. She’s still wearing her black catsuit with heeled combat boots. She has a utility belt around her waist but no visible weapons.

  I scurry backward, so I can use the wall to get myself back up to a vertical base. I’ve experienced her wrath when I was at full strength, and it nearly killed me. Right now, I’m operating at around twenty percent, and that’s being generous. I have to figure out a way to stall her and survive long enough to find an advantage. I just need to—

  She shrieks with fury as she lunges at me.

  Holy shit!

  I just about manage to get my arms up to protect my face as she lands, knee-first, on my chest. I grunt as she presses all her weight down on me. She screams again—a guttural, primal cry of fury—as she rains down blow after blow, overwhelming my body and arms with vicious punches. She has a strength that doesn’t belong on her frame. Her body is slight, toned. In another life, she could be a model. Yet, when she connects with a punch, it has the power of ten people behind it.

  She’s starting to break through my guard. A few have landed and done some major harm. I don’t have my mask on. My face is already broken, which means it won’t take much to do some permanent damage.

  The top of my head is resting against the wall. She’s straddling my body but sitting high up, almost on my chest. One knee is tucked beneath her, digging into me. Her other leg is outstretched to the side for balance. My hips are mostly free.

  This is going to hurt, but…

  I buck with my waist, thrusting up as hard as I can. The pressure on my back is immense, but it works. She wasn’t expecting it and is thrown forward. Her head connects with the wall, and she rolls away, allowing me a moment of reprieve.

  I grant myself one deep breath.

  I scramble upright and dash onto the bridge. I hear her quick steps behind me. As I make it into the middle of the room, I don’t bother checking first. I simply spin around, counterclockwise, swinging a Hail Mary right haymaker. I didn’t expect it to connect; I just wanted to give her something to think about.

  Well, it didn’t connect.

  Huh?

  She leans back and catches my arm in both hands at the wrist. As she does, she jumps and brings both legs up. One rests easily on my left shoulder. The other snakes around me, just under my outstretched arm. I feel her cross her ankles behind me as she leans back farther.

  I adjust my front leg for balance. She’s now hanging upside-down by her legs, pulling on my arm. I immediately feel the pressure on my carotid artery. A wave of dizziness hits me. I’m wrapped in a hold similar to a rear naked choke, which puts people to sleep.

  I can’t afford to lose consciousness. If I do, I’m never waking up.

  I plant my feet and clasp my hands together, using my back and my arms to try and pull her up.

  …

  …

  …

  Gah! Fuck!

  I haven’t got the strength left.

  My vision is starting to blur. Breathing is harder. I feel my cheeks flush.

  I stare into Miley’s eyes. She stares back, her wild gaze laced with rage. I see the focus and commitment of someone who is dedicated to a single task.

  Killing me.

  Well… not today, bitch.

  My breathing becomes short and fast. I’m willing myself to lose control. To let the usually well-managed flow of adrenaline burst through the barriers and consume me.

  …

  …

  …

  I bend both knees a little. Not enough to lose my balance but enough to give me a boost.

  I close my eyes. Clench my jaw. Tense every muscle until my body is wracked with pain. Then I keep tensing until the pain stops registering.

  My eyes open. I stare at her again. This time, her gaze relaxes. Replaced by concern. Concern because I know what the look in my eyes right now is like.

  Through gritted teeth, I snarl and grunt and unleash every ounce of strength I have left. My body might never forgive me, but I can live with that.

  As long as I live.

  In one movement, I push up with my legs, pull with my back, and lift with my arms…

  …

  …

  …

  I yell out as I finally hoist her up, holding her for a long moment, frozen in a violent, almost erotic embrace. Then I spin around and slam her against the window.

  The thud of her back and head connecting with the unforgiving glass is almost sickening. She doesn’t relinquish her grip, but I feel it loosen. I step back and lunge forward again. Same impact.

  This time, she relents.

  As her feet hit the floor, I wrap a hand around her throat and slam her head against the window again. It cracks, sending a spiderweb shooting out around her like a deadly halo.

  I stagger backward, resting on the helm. Miley drops to one knee, dazed. The glass around the epicenter of the crack is blood-red.

  “You won’t win,” she says, practically spitting the words at me. “You’re going to die. I’ve spent too long… too much… I won’t lose now.”

  I manage a weak smile. “Miley, you lost days ago.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “When you left me and Ruby trapped in that club with a bomb. That’s when you lost because you showed me you don’t have what it takes to kill me.”

  “Yes, I do! I’ll end you right now, you bastard!”

  I shake my head. “No, you won’t. You can’t. If you could, you’d have done it on your live stream, when I was tied up and helpless. I’m not saying you don’t want to. I’m not even saying you’re not physically capable of it. I’m saying you just can’t. You don’t have that thing inside you that allows you to take that final step over the line and finish it. You’re too… human.”

  “What? Shut up! Just… shut up! Stop it!”

  “Your mother had it. She was a good assassin. I respected Dominique a lot. She was cut from the same cloth as me. But you… you’ve got too much to live for to leave such a dark stain on your soul at your age.”

  “Shut the fuck up! You don’t get to say her name, do you hear me? Don’t you say her fucking name!”

  I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees, catching my breath. When I look over at her again, I can see her eyes starting to go. The slightly vacant stare. The struggle to stop them rolling back in her skull. The head wound is taking its toll on her. Weakening her.

  Thank God.

  I stand straight, focusing on my own struggle to not waver on the spot. I feel warm blood pulsing down my face. I feel the pinch with every breath that suggests broken ribs—either fresh ones or recurring injuries. I can’t even tell anymore. I’m a mess, and I feel unsure how far away
from death I actually am.

  But this isn’t over yet.

  I meant what I said. I don’t think she has it in her to kill me. But that’s not to say she won’t pursue me forever. She’ll just hire someone else to finish me off. And when that person fails, she’ll hire another. And another. And another. It won’t ever stop, not as long as she’s breathing.

  She gets to her feet. Her own equilibrium works against her as she rocks back and forth on the spot. I move around, putting my back to the door that leads outside. She follows suit, moving to block the other doorway.

  I drop back into a fighting stance. I lift my arms up to resemble a guard, but it won’t be as effective as I need it to be. It’s merely a formality, I guess. See, I realized something in my moment of respite back there. While there’s no denying her strength and ferocity, she’s still a slim girl who’s not old enough to drink. Science dictates that, physiologically speaking, I’m simply bigger and stronger. She beat the holy hell out of me just then, opening up a lot of wounds she herself caused only a few days ago. But with one brutal impact, I did just as much damage to her.

  Imagine what I’ll be able to do when I’m not supporting her entire body weight.

  There’s a part of me that doesn’t feel good about it. She’s just a kid. But you reap what you sow. She dedicated years of her life to learning how to kill to me. Then she spent a considerable amount of money executing an elaborate plan to do just that.

  If you want to play the grown-up’s game, you have to be prepared to lose as well as win. You don’t get a medal for participating in the real world.

  She charges at me, wild and screaming, winding up a blow with her right hand that, if I’m being honest, I probably wouldn’t get up from if it landed. But she’s injured and slow, and it’s going to get her killed.

  As she nears me, I step toward her and throw a punch of my own. She doesn’t see it coming, blinded by her own purpose. I connect with the side of her jaw about as hard as I’ve ever hit anything in my life—even with my injuries.