Page 83 of Not So Goode

He just laughed, shook his head like I’d said something absurd. “You see the numbers here?”

“Yeah. And you better hope you have enough friends that some you won’t all need the hospital.”

He was done talking, apparently. The grin wiped away, he took a long lunging step toward me, a big meaty fist swinging. I ducked under the telegraphed punch, swung the butt end of my baton, still collapsed, into his ribcage on the right side. Then I pivoted and drove my knee into his left side, near his liver and kidney.

Then all hell broke loose.

Two more came at me from my right, and I hopped sideways from left foot to right, slicing a side kick out straight, nailing one in the stomach. I kept the momentum going and used it to pivot around into a scything roundhouse kick to the second, landing it in his ribcage, under the arm he thought he was going to be punching with. Then I had no time to think—it was just me, and all of them.

I snapped my baton out, jabbed it into a gut, swung it around and felt a kneecap explode, heard a scream. Busted a skull open. Broke ribs. Used my feet and knees, and my off-hand for follow-up strikes—this was no game; they were going down, and hard.

I felt a fist hit my ribs, near my kidney, pain lancing through me, and the pain sent me into a tailspin. Most fights were one-sided—me taking them out, fast and hard, ending it as swiftly as possible. Seldom does my temper enter the fray—I can’t afford to let it.

When it does rise, like now, it’s…vicious.

Seeing red is when someone pisses you off, insults your old lady or you or your friends. When that happens it’s not my temper you see, it’s my honor being crossed. And while not smart, given what I’m capable of, it never turns lethal.

But this?

The thrust of a fist in my side, another to my liver, a third to my jaw…

The pain awakened some instinct inside me, bringing a dark and violent thing to life.

Now, I saw black.

The edges of my vision darkened, went hazy. My vision narrowed and I saw everything in absolute clarity, as it happened, all around me. My opponents were moving in slow motion. I saw a fist angling for my nose, turned my face aside to take it on my cheekbone. Another burst of pain.

A fist to my lips, splitting them against my teeth.

Blood fountained from my nose.

I heard and felt myself roar, and then I was done taking hits. The baton was a blur, and bones crunched and shattered, cartilage dissolved. My feet moved in lightning footwork, knocking out knees sideways, slamming into ribs. My off-hand went hammer-fist into livers. Knees scythed.

I took hits. Plenty of them. I was a mass of pain, blood pouring from my nose and lips. I had a bruised rib for sure, a split cheek, and other places that justhurt.

But now it was just me and Yak. He’d made it to his feet, and was assessing the pile of moaning, crying bodies around him. I stood, bleeding, savage rage on my face. Watching him, baton in hand.

He was holding his ribs. “Come on, fucker,” he said as he reached into his pocket.

“You pull a knife, you’ll be leaving on a stretcher with your friends.”

He pulled it anyway. Big, long, fuck-off black, folding blade, at least four inches of blade, if not more. Drop point, assisted open. Serrated.

“Come on, man. You’re done. It’s over. You think you’re getting anywhere near me with that?”

“I’ll cut you to pieces, bitch,” he growled. “Your little stick won’t help you.”

Little stick my ass. Tran, the current president of the AzTex is Filipino, and an expert in Filipino stick fighting. Which he taught me.

I hated this part.

The part where this injured, hopelessly outmatched idiot decides to push his luck. I was in pain, angry, and not in control. If he came at me with the knife, I couldn’t guarantee he’d live to walk away.

He held it like he knew what he was doing, but little good that would do him.

Hold back, I told myself.

I repeated that injunction as I waited for Yak as he circled, knife waving, tip circling. Hand out, light on his feet for a big guy.