Max Arena (40 page)

‘Who are they supposed to…?’ the driver
started, but was interrupted.

‘Max!’ Peter yelled, spinning in his
seat.

The sound of the rear sliding door opening
had caused Peter to look backwards. Max paused as he held the door
half open, but not looking Peter in the eye.

‘You keep your arse in this vehicle!’ Peter
yelled.

‘Wolves in sheep’s clothing,’ Max
replied.

‘What?’ Peter called back. ‘What are you
talking about?’

Now Max turned and looked his personal body
guard and close friend directly in the eye. ‘They’re here for me.
To test me,’ he said.

‘
What do you mean,
test
you?’

‘
Someone in the American camp wants to
replace me with their own pawn. I have to prove them wrong or else
you’re going to die
right here and now and I won’t let that.’

‘What’s not going to happen is you getting
out of this van! You sit tight till the cavalry gets here in a few
minutes and that’s an order!’

‘Not going to happen, Pete.’

‘Yes, it is!’

Max held Peter’s glare for a few moments
and then slowly shook his head. Swiftly, Max threw the sliding door
open and jumped out. Peter tried to turn and open his own door just
as quickly, but failed. Max got there first and held his open palm
flat against the outside of the window, firmly forcing the door
closed against Peter’s pushing. Max looked through the glass and
shook his head again. Peter tried to lower the window with the
electric button, but Max’s force was too great even for the
window’s motor, causing it to squeal and whine as it failed to
lower the pane. Peter pressed the button harder and then pushed on
the door some more, but Max held firm.

Peter closed his eyes and stopped, taking
a deep breath. He opened them and found Max still staring
impassively back at him through the glass. Peter stared back for a
few moments and reluctantly nodded
before leaning back from the door. Max nodded back
and stepped out from the van to reach into his pocket and retrieve
Peter’s mobile phone that he had used to call the Prime Minister.
Max made a twirling motion with his finger and Peter lowered the
window as instructed.

Max tossed the phone in and said, ‘You
might want to video this and get it on record. You might also want
to call Joe and tell him what’s happening.’

Peter nodded and replied,
‘
Whatever you do, mate,
after you’re done kicking these boys’ arses, get out of the way of
that Apache. Not even you’re man enough to bring that thing down on
your own.’

Max turned and looked
first at the hulking war bird and then
turned to take in the still burning wreckage of the nearest four
wheel drive that had been leading the motorcade. Inside the twisted
carnage lay the bodies of four loyal men and women, sworn to
protect him, who had paid the ultimate price. Killed by their own
allies. Max’s knuckles shone white as his fists curled into clubs
of sinew and bone.

‘
Just make sure you get this on tape,’ Max
muttered, ‘and don’t ever show it to my kids.’

Peter froze. The timbre of Max’s voice
chilled the blood in his veins. Never in his extended life in
combat had he ever heard anything like it. Max’s voice dripped with
intent, thick with purpose and the tone
forbode only one thing. Death.

Max strode out into the still vacant
intersection, the swirling downwash ripping at his black training
tank top and shorts that he had not yet changed out of. Errant
newspaper scraps flapped around his orange shoes, skittering away
as he strode further out onto the vacant bitumen.
Once in the centre, Max stopped
and turned to face the three characters who had also come out to
line up side by side in front of him only metres away.

Peter brought up his phone and pressed the
record button, aiming it at the impromptu arena in the centre of
the intersection. He also dialed the Prime
Minister’
s number and
waited while it rang three times.

‘Max or Peter?’ Joseph Tollsen’s voice
asked.

‘It’s Peter. Max is a little busy.’

‘Explain?’

‘The Apaches have wiped out the rest of the
motorcade and left us pinned down just off the freeway at the
lights. One of the Apaches is sitting right in front of us while
the other one presumably is somewhere upstairs covering the
area.’

‘
Where are
you
and why is Max a little busy?’

‘A US Marines Yankee has come in too and just
offloaded a trio of what I can only describe as duelers, obviously
looking to challenge Max, who has stepped out to face up to them.
I’m stuck in the car getting it all on tape and talking to
you.’

‘
Are there any bystanders?’

Peter looked around the intersection. ‘A
few people stuck in their cars hiding, but no
one on the street. Collateral damage will
be minimal if any.’

‘
Good,’ the Prime Minster said, a hint of
relief in his voice. ‘Do these duelers look like a match for
Max?’

‘Let’s just say, they’d probably belt anyone
I know out of the ring, but for Max, my money’s on him.’

‘Are they armed?’

‘Two of them. With swords.’

A pause on the line. Then, ‘God help them.
Everything is about to change.’

A shiver sliced its way up Peter’s spine.
He kept his hands steady and silently sent a message of support out
to Max.

Max no longer felt the pressure in his
clenched fists, his attention locked on the trio of combatants in
front of him, wondering who would come first. Not that it mattered
and then he found out.

The giant black man stepped forward and
closed the space between him and Max, his fists also balled into
human maces. His white eyes gleamed out of his dark face, malice
spitting forth. Max had no need to tense in readiness. His wits
already stood poised to react.

Suddenly, the giant’s torso muscles
rippled and he launched a devastating right arm punch straight
towards Max’s face at blinding speed. Max stepped back and the fist
pulled up just short. The man’s left fist then swung in a blur from
Max’s right
, headed
straight at his chin. Max stepped back again, his movements
definite, but almost casual. Three more straight drive punches
ended in thin air in front of Max’s face, the rapid fire almost too
fast for Peter to clearly see, but for Max, he foresaw them all and
then stood back to watch the giant take a pause. The untrained eye
would have judged Max as calm and relaxed, but Peter could see the
enormous tension riled up inside him, like a dam cracking under a
full load of water, waiting to burst.

The giant roared and lunged forward
a
t Max, his huge, burly
arms like a grizzly’s, swiping and swinging, clawing and grabbing,
but every move the man made, Max deftly stepped aside from or
ducked under, turning all the while to stay square on to his
attacker.

The black man screamed now, his rage
directed purely at Max who eyed him off just beyond arm’s reach.
Then
the giant lunged
again, his massive left leg leading as he stepped into an inhuman
right armed drive, his entire, goliath frame pushing his right fist
through the air like a pile driver.

This time Max reacted offensively. Mirror
imaging the giant, he stepped forward with his right foot and
pushed his left hand out in front, his palm open. The giant’s fist
and Max’s open hand smacked together, full on. An almighty slap
resounded across the intersection like a sonic boom. The impact
instantly brought both men to a standstill. Frozen together with
the giant’s fist in Max’s hand, the two men stood locked together,
both men glaring at each other from close quarters. The giant
snarled, his upper lip curling. Max’s face held stern and resolute.
No give came.

Then the giant tried to pull away, but
couldn’t move, his hand stuck fast in Max’s grip. He pulled harder
and failed again. Then in a blur, Max let fly a vicious,
right-handed, upper cut, but not at the man’s chin and instead at
his open right underarm. The blow cannoned upwards to connect right
on target.

The giant roared as he was lifted off his
feet by the blow and with Max still holding his arm firmly extended
out in front, the blow also ripped the man’s shoulder joint apart.
A loud pop ricocheted around the intersection and Max let the fist
go.

Before anyone had time to react, Max then
lashed out with his left foot, pivoting and kicking upwards into
the giant’s inner left thigh. The man was again jolted momentarily
off his feet as a hideous snap sounded.

As the giant fell to his knees, he glanced
down at his broken femur, which was the last thing he ever did. Max
rose up and lifted his right fist overhead and barreled it
downwards, smashing it into the back of the giant’s head. A
sickening sound like a melon cracking emanated as Max followed his
blow all the way through.

Driven into the bitumen, the giant
crumpled and lay still. Max straightened and stepped back, his eyes
still glued on his downed opponent. He then paused to wait.
Nothing. Then Max looked up, his focus now realigning onto the two
remaining opponents.

In the van, silence held sway. The bout
had lasted maybe
one
minute and Max’s own attack had been only a fraction of it, the
retaliation and killing blow combination lasting only
seconds.

‘One down,’ Peter mumbled.

‘That was one punch wasn’t it?’ the driver
asked, awe dripping from his lips.

‘That wasn’t a punch,’ Peter replied. ‘That
was a freight train.’

‘What’s happening, Peter?’ the Prime Minster
asked over the still open line.

‘
Max just took out the unarmed guy.
Monstered him.’

‘And now?’

‘Looks like the single sword guy is lining
up.’

Sure enough, in the intersection, the man
bearing the single, long, curved sword stepped forward to face up
to Max. The downwash of the Apache and the Yankee still ripped at
their clothing, but the disturbance played no problem for either
man. Peter kept the phone’s viewfinder fixed on them as the second
bout began.

The
mystery attacker sprang instantly into action, his sword
flashing in glittering arcs in and around Max’s form as Max dodged
and weaved. The blade repeatedly sliced the air cleanly in front of
Max’s face and chest, but each time Max was faster, pre-empting
each strike and its direction to move safely out of the
way.

The sword wielder moved faster, upping the
speed and ferocity of his attacks. The steel of the blade became a
whirl as the late afternoon light flashed and blinked off its
surface. Max stepped to the
left and lifted his right foot as the sword diced downwards
past his leg, its tip striking sparks as it scratched the bitumen.
Max then ducked down as the blade crossed murderously across his
midriff level, its razor sharp edge cutting the air just
millimetres over Max’s head. As he ducked, Max knew what was coming
next.

His
attacker recognised his position as being suddenly dominant
and Max’s as being vulnerable, so the swordsman continued his
horizontal swipe through and then seamlessly redirected it upwards
until he stood, towering over Max with his blade held high in both
hands. Driving his hands down, the sword followed suit, slicing
downwards in a killing blow, aimed directly at Max’s head. A
grimace contorted the swordsman’s face as he struck with all his
power and skill. The blade flashed down.

Without looking up and still on his
haunches, Max
snapped
both hands upwards into an overhand clap, his open palms slapping
together just as the sword came between them. Max’s palms gripped
the sword like a vice, instantly stopping its lethal arc. The
swordsman stumbled, his momentum rudely halted and his initiative
stolen away.

Max looked up, like a disciple
genuflecting before a priest, except there was nothing benevolent
in it. With the blade still firmly gripped between his
palms,
Max straightened
and rose to full height. The man tried to pull the sword free, but
Max’s unbreakable grip held. The swordsman was completely
defenseless. Cold steel shone In Max’s eyes. Even twenty metres
away and inside the van, Peter could feel his friend’s
intent.

In a flash, Max stepped forward,
pulling
the blade along
his left hand side. Fluidly, he released his right hand and shot
his right fist out to smash it into the swordsman’s nose, snapping
the man’s head back. Instantly, the swordsman released his grip on
the hilt of the blade and with his left hand, Max reached forwards
and with an underhanded flick, clipped the sword up into the air,
causing it to flip and somersault end over end with the grip
landing in his waiting left hand. The swordsman stumbled back,
clutching at his face, oblivious to his disarming.

Max paused, sword in hand, as his attacker
gathered himself, both hands pressed against his nose, his watering
eyes taking in and registering his predicament. Max did not let the
moment linger. With blinding speed, he
reversed the blade in his left hand and pivoted on
his right foot to spin into his opponent. The now backward facing
tip of the blade speared directly into the man’s left breast,
cleaving straight through to pierce outwards from his back like a
skewer.