Rules of Honour (37 page)

‘Bastard,’ I called him.

Markus danced back. Light on his feet, his hands held in a boxer’s guard.

‘Wish you saved one of those bullets now?’ Markus sneered.

‘You got lucky, punk. Care to try again?’

Markus nodded. Then he launched the same kick a second time. At the last second he adjusted the trajectory of his shin so that the kick swept low under my guard and slammed my ribs. It was some kick: like a baseball bat delivered to a side of beef. I winced, trying to conceal the agony.

‘That puts us on an even keel now,’ he said. ‘You damaged my ribs, I damaged yours.’

I snorted at his bravado. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Markus crowed.

‘Let’s do it then.’

We both threw a blinding combination of blows, using fists, legs, and elbows, and we were well matched. Knuckles slammed flesh, knees rammed guts and shins whacked each other’s thigh muscles. Within seconds I was bleeding from my mouth, and Markus had a huge bruise growing on his right cheek. Then Markus got in a low sweeping kick, similar to one Rink favoured during his knockdown karate days, and I went down on my back. The fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. I threw a kick from the floor, forcing Markus to hop back out of the way. He stood ten feet away, waving me back to my feet.

I lunged up like a gridiron footballer attacking the line of scrimmage. My opponent could easily have avoided the attack, but it appeared he was eager to get to grips with me. We crunched together like sumo wrestlers, each pushing and jostling, grabbing at each other’s clothing. But it was a momentary clash, until I reared back and then drove my forehead directly into Markus’s face. There was a crunch of cartilage and, as we broke apart, Markus’s nose had taken on a new position. Blood flooded over his top lip, looking like oil in the darkness. He swiped at his face with the back of his wrist, then spat blood and mucus on the floor. My blow wasn’t one allowed in a karate tournament, but straight from my soldier’s repertoire. The shape of the battle was about to change.

Earlier I’d called Markus a coward; he proved me wrong in the next instant, because he didn’t lie down but came back at me. If anything the broken nose seemed to spur him to greater action. He threw a couple of looping overhand punches at my head – both missed – but then he drove in with a straight cross that slammed me forcefully. The only thing was that I’d dipped my face at the last second and Markus’s knuckles impacted on my forehead. The forehead is one of the hardest points of the human anatomy – much stronger than the weak metacarpals of a hand. Markus jumped back shaking his hand, and more droplets of inky blood spattered through the bars of starlight streaking the old meeting house. He was swearing, and I saw him glance at his fist and followed the movement. The skin was torn at his knuckles, bone glistening through the ruined flesh. I checked and found a smear of blood on my forehead, but I was confident that this time it was all Markus’s. My skull still felt like a ten-pound hammer had struck it.

If his hand was broken then Markus was now severely hindered, but he saw his fight for what it was: a matter of life or death. He let out a loud bark of anger and threw a kick at my groin. A subtle twist of my body ensured that Markus’s kick missed its intended target, but his foot whacked my inner thigh almost as painfully. His elbow struck with lightning speed, ramming into my ribs. Good job the blow struck my good side or the fight might have ended then. Markus watched as I stumbled away from him, almost losing my footing before I was able to regain my balance. He allowed me the time to right myself. He shook his head in disdain of his enemy; he was actually playing with me.

‘To think that I worried you’d be a deadly opponent,’ he said.

No, not playing, I realised, the bastard only wished to prolong my agony.

‘I’m not done yet,’ I snarled.

It was difficult to breathe, but I sucked it up. Went back at him, throwing a jab kick at his knee that he avoided, but a backhand strike to his face got him full on.

Now it was his turn to back away, while he shook the cobwebs from his head.

‘Worried again?’ I asked.

Markus swung away from me, and I wondered if he was as keen to continue as before. He began glancing around, seeking something to use as a weapon, and I saw his gaze alight on a pile of old furniture stacked in one corner of the room.

‘Do your worst, bastard,’ I said.

‘I’m going to,’ he said, reaching for the pile.

Furniture began to topple as Markus rooted around for something he could wield. He finally spun back holding an old chair with his good hand. It was an ancient thing, and looked like a folding deckchair but made from slats of wood. He swung it at me, but his stance and aim proved ungainly and he missed. I hopped in and threw a kick, demolishing the seat of the chair and leaving Markus holding part of the backrest. Markus let out a grunt of satisfaction; he was now wielding something he could control, a weapon he thought might raise the game in his favour again. He lunged in, stabbing at my throat with the broken spar. Weaving aside I threw a left-right combination into Markus’s face. It snapped the man’s head back but he clubbed at my body and I had to retreat to avoid broken bones. Markus came after me, confident he had me on the run, his club whistling with each swipe. I dodged once more, but struck out with a knife hand blow that impacted with Markus’s wrist. The length of wood spun away and was lost in the shadows at the other side of the large room.

Markus wasn’t deterred. He went immediately into attack mode, landing a kick to my chest, and followed through with a powerful punch to my chin. It caught me squarely, and only the fact that I was moving backwards, riding the force of the blow, saved me serious injury. Galvanised by his success, Markus threw his opposite hand, spearing with his open fingers for my eyes. I twisted under the attack, catching Markus’s extended arm over my shoulder and butting in with my hips, jacking Markus on his locked elbow and spinning him over my shoulder and on to the hard-packed floor. Dust billowed at the impact and Markus let out a hiss like steam escaping a ruptured boiler. Momentarily stunned, he was at my mercy.

But I stepped back.

It was best that I had. Where he’d fallen was in reaching distance of the KA-BAR ditched by Rink earlier, and he snatched it from the floor and swiped at my gut.

He raised an eyebrow my way, licked the blood off his lips and gave me the tiniest of smiles as he rose up from the floor.

I was breathing hard; blood leaked from my nostrils invading my mouth. Each time I exhaled, droplets misted the tiger-striped atmosphere. I glanced once at the junk pile, then back at Markus, but I was loath to move. He stood up straighter, shaking his head.

‘What’s up? You think I’m going to stab you from behind?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you. I still think you’re a coward.’

‘I’m going to look you in the eyes when you die.’

‘Ditto,’ I claimed.

Markus moved in a blur, his right hand whipping out in a backhand slash that took a flap of skin from my right deltoid as I reared away.

Markus stalked me, laughing as blood flooded my shirtfront.I would have spat on him if I didn’t detest the habit. He adjusted the knife for the
coup de grâce
. He had a smug sheen to his face; you’d think he was King Arthur and had just drawn Excalibur from the stone judging by the look of satisfaction he exuded. By the way he held the knife, and the way in which he kept it close to his body, he had as much knowledge of knife-fighting as he did of unarmed combat. I hoped that I hadn’t made a huge error in allowing him a go at me.

I was also an accomplished knife fighter, but I was without a weapon. Quickly I ripped off my jacket and shirt and wound them around my left forearm. The blood helped the cloth adhere to my skin. My night vision had now adjusted to the murky interior and my opponent was a silhouette against the monochrome background of decaying walls and trashed furniture. I readied for his attack.

Markus made an experimental probe with the knife. He barely came within a foot of my body before withdrawing. I rolled my head, loosening the kinks in my neck, but that was my only reaction. I had read the lack of commitment in Markus’s attack. ‘Come on, arsehole,’ I grunted, ‘let’s get down to the real business.’

‘I aim to.’ There was no commitment to his words, and I knew he was trying for the sneak attack. When it came, I was still a half-second too slow to react.

His arm whipped forward, the KA-BAR zipping from his extended hand like a flash of blue flame. Only the fact that I was already sailing on adrenalin saved me. Reflexively I dropped low and the blade slashed through the exact place where my head had been a moment earlier. But the handle struck my head and left a fresh wound in my scalp. ‘Son of a bitch . . .’

It surprised me that he’d thrown the knife, giving up a major advantage. But Markus crouched down and his hand slipped into his boot. When he came up, it proved he wasn’t as stupid as I’d thought, because he was clasping a homemade shiv and there was a gleam of familiarity in his eyes. He’d chosen to throw away the KA-BAR so he could employ his personal killing weapon on me. He must have noted the recognition in me, because he came fast, ripping up at my gut with the tip of the blade. As I dodged to one side, Markus moved with me, angling the blade as though it was an extension of his thumb and he was hiking a lift. Unchecked, the knife would pass over my left shoulder and into my neck below the ear.

I was prepared for the secondary attack. I pivoted towards the knife, my cloth-covered forearm impacting with Markus’s wrist even as I swung a looping elbow strike into his chest. The force of the blow staggered Markus, but not enough to flatten him completely. Markus disengaged, then jabbed at my chest, but immediately reversed the trajectory and went for an overhand thrust at my face. What followed was a blur of action that stuttered through the beams of starlight, reminiscent of dancers moving through strobe lights. Markus jabbed and slashed; I moved defensively, my bandaged forearm and cupped palms redirecting his attacks. Nevertheless I was an unarmed man against a skilled practitioner with a super sharp blade, and fresh spots of blood grew on my chest and hands.

I was breathing loudly as he slashed and stabbed. My posture had contracted slightly, and I was growing heavy-footed. Conversely Markus was moving with more grace. His face was set in a death’s-head grin. I was damned if he didn’t appear to be enjoying the fight. The cloth around my arm was now a shredded rag. I desperately jumped away from Markus, shaking my arm. Blood spattered the floor from a wicked gash on the back of my right wrist.

Finally Markus had got through with a telling strike. There was a flash of his teeth at the knowledge that he had his quarry on the back foot. He came at me again, more determined than before.He obviously wasn’t enjoying the fight as much as I’d assumed and was now ready to finish things having drawn sufficient blood.

To get my arse into gear, I stepped up the pace of my defensive tactics and each was now delivered with a corresponding counter-attack. As I blocked his stab, I struck with my other hand. As I redirected a sweep of Markus’s blade, I kicked at the man’s supporting leg. As Markus speared at my gut, I rammed my stiffened fingers into his throat. I had to take him apart bit by bit – or more correctly destroy Markus’s ability to attack. I ignored the slash of his blade through dermis, concentrating only on avoiding anything that could maim or kill me immediately. Cuts to my chest and arms now leaked blood, as did one on my left cheek. I disregarded them, concentrated on injuring him in turn. My blows were aimed at the muscles of his upper arms, his deltoids, to his inner and outer thighs. Markus began to seize up as his limbs shut down. If he couldn’t move, he couldn’t wield his blade.

Up until then I’d been too busy warding off his stabs and had avoided striking his face or groin, but now they became targets for my punches and kicks. I knocked a couple of teeth out, kneed him in the balls. The shiv hung limp in Markus’s hand as he bent forward, gasping.

An uppercut knocked him back on his heels.

‘How does it feel now?’ I demanded through gritted teeth. ‘Like those little girls felt at your father’s hands? And as Andrew and the others did when you brutalised them?’

Markus opened his mouth to reply, but there was nothing I wished to hear from him. Before he could form words, I drove into him with a kick that lifted the murderer from his feet and threw him backwards into the stack of furniture. Chairs toppled over him, half concealing him from view. I charged in, throwing aside the clutter to get a clear target, and crouched to deliver a right cross to Markus’s face. There was a crunch of teeth as Markus’s jaws were rammed together. I wasn’t finished. I threw a left, and heard the crack of a bone that signified a broken jaw.

Surprisingly Markus wasn’t finished either. He swiped his blade at my chest, scoring a fresh line across one collarbone and almost adding another to my cheek. It won him a second’s respite and he came to one knee, jabbing at my groin. I butted the knife away with a jab of a knee. Pivoting, I rammed a back kick into Markus’s face and the murderer crashed back among the heap of furniture. His broken jaw now hung loose, blood and saliva in drooling ribbons on his chin. His eyes were rolling, going in and out of focus. The shiv clattered among the legs of broken chairs and ended on the earthen floor, out of reach of either of us.

I stepped back, lining up a kick to the man’s prone body. A hand was placed on my shoulder. I could feel the heat radiating off Rink in waves. ‘It isn’t over until he’s dead,’ I told my friend, aching still to crush Markus beneath my heels.