If he'd kept rolling away, as his mind screamed at him to do, he knew his opponent would jump ahead, pin him, and kill him. Instead, he rolled back, grabbing hold of the killer's arm with both hands. Before the killer had a chance to kick, Stephen hoisted his lower body into the air and planted a stunning blow with the tip of his boot into the top of the man's head. Anchored by Stephen's grip on his arm, the killer staggered . . .
Then dropped his knee onto Stephen's forehead.
forty-two
Light swam back into his mind, forming itself into images: the building on his left, blue sky, white clouds, a flash of leg, and the killer standing over him, poised to bring his spiked fist into Stephen's head.
Stephen swung his arm straight up, aiming for the clouds high above. He struck the killer between the legs.
The gauntleted warrior tumbled away.
Stephen rolled and pushed himself up. He kicked out, catching the man in the side. As the killer staggered back, Stephen lowered his torso and kicked his booted heel into his opponent's sternum.
The killer flew backward into the bank's display window, crashing through and disappearing behind a waterfall of shattering glass. A huge pane sliced down like a guillotine. An instant later, Stephen caught the full force of a roundhouse kick to the side of his head as the killer leaped over the glass-toothed sill. Stephen's head snapped back painfully. He wanted to fall, to let the black cloud hovering at the edge of his consciousness engulf him and just. . . fall. Instead, he jerked his head upright and raged the black cloud away—just in time to see a saber-sized sheet of glass arcing on a horizontal plane toward his neck, blurring with speed.
He ducked.
The glass, clasped in the killer's hands, disappeared in a screaming, dissolving collision with the brick that flanked the bank's windows.
Stephen drove his head into the killer's stomach and felt the pain of a fist gripping the hair on the back of his head. Rather than pull back, he pushed forward, knocking his opponent off balance. They both went down. As the killer hit concrete, Stephen somersaulted over him, using the momentum to tear his head away from the fist.
He felt like he'd been cracked on the back of the head with a lead pipe. He blocked out the pain; it was something he was getting used to.
He rolled away, tumbling out of the killer's reach. On his feet, down for mere seconds.
The killer too—standing ten feet away, bent at the knees, arms out like an attacking wrestler. He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, ready. The man was tall, only slightly shorter than he was, maybe six foot four. At roughly 260 muscular pounds, the man's proportions were similar to a body builder's; he possessed none of the lankiness common among tall men. Through the unzipped opening of the black Windbreaker, a dark green pullover clung to bulging pectorals. Quick eyes watched Stephen's every move.
Stephen sucked in a deep breath, then another. Sweat stung his eye. He tasted blood: a lot of it. A chill trickled down his spine as he realized the killer was breathing in the unhurried rhythm of a body at rest, barely perceptible in the shallow rise and fall of his massive chest. No perspiration at all. Just blood. Cuts and gashes and scrapes freckled the killer's face and one visible hand . . . a hand that still clutched a clump of brown, bloody hair and what looked like—a piece of scalp.
The attacker raised his fist to examine his prize. He focused on Stephen and smiled.
"That's gotta hurt," he said in a strong voice, no trace of humor. He casually pushed the hair into the breast pocket of the Windbreaker, seeming to dare Stephen to retrieve what had been taken from him.
"Stephen!"
It was Allen, behind him some distance. Panicked, by the sound of his voice.
The killer glared.
"Run, Stephen!"
"Stephen, I can get him." Julia's voice, closer. Cool as a whole patch of cucumbers. "Move out of the way."
He glanced back quickly. Julia was on the sidewalk right behind him, thirty feet—
"Watch—!" she screamed, and he dropped straight down, knowing what was coming. The gauntlet passed over him, so close he felt it stir the hair remaining on top of his head. He rolled into the killer's legs, but the killer leaped away so fast it was as though he had never been there. Stephen swept his massive leg around, appearing to target his opponent's ankles, but intending only to buy enough time to jump up.
When he did, he found the killer several steps away, nearly under the uncrushed part of the canopy that had cushioned Stephen's fall.
The man moved to strike a blow to Stephen's chest, but pulled away at the last moment.
Stephen kicked out, realizing too late that his assailant had feigned the punch to draw him in.
The killer caught hold of his leg, pinning it between the crook of his left arm and one of the poles that held the canopy frame. Stephen tugged, but he might as well have had his foot encased in the foundation of a building. He bounced on one foot, trying to keep his balance. He swung around to twist free, but the killer moved with him, countering his movements.
Pain fades in the heat of battle as the mind locks in on survival. But even a brief reprieve in the action can send it rushing back, as it did now for Stephen. His head felt cleaved, his shoulder savagely wrenched.
His opponent flashed that evil smile again, superior, unflinching.
As if in slow motion, the killer's arm, spiked and rock solid, pivoted back, then surged forward. Stephen tried to bring his arm around to block the blow but missed. He twisted sideways and felt the crushing impact on his ribs. The air burst from his lungs. He hitched for air that wouldn't come. Then he saw the killer bring his arm back for another strike. His enemy had been targeting his head all along; Stephen knew this one would find its mark, a blow he wouldn't, couldn't survive.
Then a gunshot rang out, sharp and close. Sparks sprang like fireworks from the pole in front of the killer's face.
Stephen was free, falling, crashing to the ground.
Another shot.
Vaguely he sensed someone running toward him, past him, stopping at his feet: Julia, gun in hand, taking aim. Someone else, Allen, rushed to him, tugging at his arm.
"Stephen! Come on, man! Let's go!"
Allen straddled him, lifting him. Stephen felt all the pain in the world shatter his body. He growled more than screamed. Allen raised his palm, drenched in blood, and grimaced.
"Can you move?"
The question prompted him to try. Catching a rush of adrenaline, he rose, then staggered. Allen moved to his left side, slipping under his arm, and maneuvered him away from the canopy. Stephen gasped for air, found he could breathe again. Fire radiated from numbness on his left side, pulsing fingers of it reaching toward his heart, his head, making his legs weak.
But with each step, each breath, he felt stronger. He pushed away from Allen to stand on his own. He was shaky, still in pain, but otherwise okay—he thought.
It'd take more than that to keep this old fighter down.
He sensed chaos all along the block, people screaming and scattering at the sight of guns, others watching the action from behind cars. Somewhere in the distance sirens wailed. He turned. Julia was occupying the spot where the killer had pinned him to the canopy pole. Gym bag slung over one shoulder, she clutched her gun at the end of two stiff arms, aiming. He looked past her in time to see the killer peer around the corner of a recessed entryway two storefronts away. She'd managed to drive him away, but not far. Julia fired, and a brick erupted near the killer's head.
"Go!" she yelled. "Go!"
A huge black gun sprang out from the entryway, turned toward them, spat smoke. Julia dodged to the left. Allen pulled at Stephen. Both spun and moved down the sidewalk, close to the buildings. The best Stephen could muster was a loping gallop. Allen moved in to help again, supporting and steering him.