by Ryder Stacy
The idea depressed Rock immensely as he suddenly visualized endless bouts against those would-be glory boys. But it didn’t depress him nearly as much as when he turned to start back to the caved-in tunnel and saw another nine of the assassin warriors—each one decked out in a menacing outfit representing one of the martial arts, each one clutching some death device—and all of them staring at the Doomsday Warrior with eyes of purest malevolence.
Twenty-One
“Are you guys cheaper to hire by the dozen or what?” Rock asked, letting the shotpistol hang loosely by his side. Not a man answered him as they slowly spread out in a half-circle, and came toward him, bent on nothing less than his obliteration. They wore blacks and reds and blues, silks and khakis. They carried knives and staffs, laser wands, star-knives, each holding the weapon of his specialty in front of him, all aimed at the heart of Ted Rockson. He could see with a quick sweeping glance that they were all as well-trained as those he had already faced, or better. They moved with the flowing motionless ease of only those who have spent decades in the pursuit of complete mastery of one of the martial arts.
And he could see something else. That he was a dead man. There was no way in hell he could face up to all of them at once. Death, ever at his shoulder, seemed to claw at his flesh, whisper in his ear—that it was time to go. But Rock wasn’t quite ready, not without the fiercest fight he had ever put up in his life. He moved very slowly to the side, away from the rock wall behind him, not wanting to get cornered, lose his maneuverability. The semi-circle closed in, raising their blades, their staffs, and cleavers. Rock waited until they were about 20 feet away and then whipped his pistol up in a blurring arc, firing the thing on full-auto, ripping his arm in a streaking circle across the advancing line. Each of the assassins jumped, in a fraction of a second, to the side, moving with the lightning quick reflexes they had mastered. But Rockson, knowing they could beat the shot, had fired between them, not at them, so as they jumped, several of them leaped into his line of fire, catching the cross-pattern of shot. One of the killers, holding an immense battle axe, collapsed in spasms on the cave floor, the axe dropping down on its wielder, slamming into the huge neck. It buried itself in to the hilt, sending out a geyser of blood from the pulsing artery.
The one in a white silk flowered gown, holding a narrow stick which Rockson recognized as a Tai-Chi wand, and the one carrying a handful of circular saw-blade sized star-knives, slapped their hands over small circles of blood that appeared on their uniforms. Hit, but not dead.
But they kept coming. One down, plenty more to go, the Doomsday Warrior thought to himself as he slammed another magazine into the top of the foot-long pistol. It didn’t look good, to say the least. But he didn’t have much choice. One at a time, one at a time. Even if they all charged, he remembered from his Aikido and Tai Chi training, only one or two could actually reach him at any one moment. He would spin and weave and strike out at whoever was closest. The rest was in God’s hands—if He was still around. The Doomsday Warrior pulled out the glistening double-sided bayonet he had taken in Goerringrad and held it in his left hand. He raised both hands and waited for the first man to come. He would be the first one to die.
There was a sudden crashing sound just behind the entire group as if the wall was coming down. They disappeared from Rockson’s eyes in a sudden swirling cloud of dust accompanied by the sounds of yelling and firing. Within seconds the dust disappeared again, sucked in by the now functioning ventilation systems of the cave complex. Rock could scarcely believe his eyes. Pouring forth from the caved-in tunnel, which was now cleared of its rocks and boulders, was the rest of the team, their Liberators and pistols at the ready.
“What the hell is going on here?” Detroit yelled out, a huge chromium .45 in his hand.
Chen, Archer and the other six men of the repair team stared wide-eyed at the apparitions of the assassin squad as they slowly reappeared out of the dust cloud.
“I was beginning to feel a little bit like Custer at Little Big Horn,” Rock yelled over to his men, now 15 yards away.
“Yeah, we knew you’d be in some sort of trouble, like you always are,” Detroit yelled back. “So we blasted the whole damned cave-in apart with some explosives one of the techs remembered were stored nearby.”
The assassins looked on in confusion. The cave-in had been created to stop the others from helping. So that there could be no doubt of the outcome. But it didn’t matter to them. They were the toughest, the baddest hombres on the face of this earth. A few more split skulls and dismembered bodies would add spice to the historic event—the death of Ted Rockson.
They came suddenly forward at the same instant like a pack of leopards, moving with feline speed. Three of them headed toward Rockson while the others turned to face the Freefighters who had just blasted their way through.
They charged Rockson with grim smiles on their cruel faces—Matsu—the Goju karate master in karate gi with huge spiked brass-knuckles on each of his steel-hard fists; C’hing Chow—the goateed Tai Chi master holding a 24" long Tai Chi wand in his right hand, its ruby laser tip glowing like a white hot coal, ready to send out its death beam; Wing Wu—the White Avenger decked out in a flowing white silk robe that swirled around his legs raised a sword. Each of them was capable of taking on any twenty men—only now their combined energies were directed toward just one—the Doomsday Warrior.
Rock knew he was in for the fight of his life. Against even highly trained fighters, his knowledge of the martial arts and his lightning quick reflexes made it no contest. But against these masters, he’d need every trick in the book to come out on top. He glanced around for a split second and saw that the rest of the assassin squad was breaking up—each heading for one of the Freefighters. His men were tough, but other than Chen, Rock felt a sinking feeling in his gut that they didn’t have a chance against these super-fighters. But he didn’t have time to worry about the future.
C’hing Chow suddenly charged in, taking tiny steps but somehow moving with the speed of a cheetah. Rock whirled around in a pivot, letting the white-goateed master fly by him. He raised his shotpistol ready for the next two but saw in a flash that they were standing yards away watching. So they were going to do it one at a time. Their pride, their belief that each was the only one who could do the job, dictated that Rock would be allowed to engage them one at a time. At least for the time being. Their egos were getting in the way of the assassination itself. Well, that was fine with Rock. He had nothing to prove beyond sheer survival. He put his peripheral vision on hold so he wouldn’t keep looking out of the corner of his eye, directed all his energies toward the Tai Chi master who had stopped on a dime and was once again coming toward him with those speeding locomotive-like tiny steps. His narrow, golden-toned face was as frozen as the icy face of the moon, and within those black eyes were mirrored the death of hundreds of men.
Rockson again gauged the speed and angle of the robed master and ripped the shotpistol up letting loose two rounds. But somehow the blast missed the assassin even though he was just yards away. C’hing Chow was just not there. A flicker of a smile traced through the narrow-lipped mouth as he raised his narrow wand and pointed it at Rockson. A bolt of white light shot out from the throbbing ruby tip as the laser beam sped at the speed of light toward Rockson, hitting him in his pistol hand. He felt a stab of pain on the back of his hand, and the smell of burning flesh—his own, filled his nostrils. The pinpoint laser beam had burned a half-inch hole nearly down to the bone of Rockson’s hand. The gun flew out of his spasming fingers and landed nearly eight feet away on the cave floor.
“Shit,” Rock spat out as he jumped back, barely avoiding a second flash of blinding light. The beam silently shot past him and into the cavern wall nearly a hundred feet behind him, gouging out a glowing hole in the granite surface. Great—three seconds into the fight and he had already lost his equalizer. But in the game of life and death there can be no time to worry—just fight. He’d have to make do, or die
.
“You disappoint me, Mr. Rockson,” the Tai Chi master said with the neutral calmness of those who have devoted their lives to killing. “I had expected this fight to be the highlight of my martial career. But now, I hardly think this battle will enter the history books of the fighting arts.”
“It’s 12 seconds into round one,” Rock said, shifting the bayonet to his right hand, which though it throbbed like hell, seemed functional. “I’m the kind of guy that needs to get warmed up.”
“Well I’m sure I can oblige you,” C’hing Chow said, opening his narrow mouth and releasing an almost inhuman sound that passed for a laugh. “I will not just warm you—but burn you up.”
He turned his wrist ever so slightly and another of the deadly laser beams shot out. But this time at last, Rock had felt it coming and again twisted out of the way, just barely avoiding the stream of starfire. He could feel the heat of it brush by his lower back. This is insane, he thought as he jumped to the side and continued spinning, moving out of the way of the beam which tried to follow him like a heat-seeking missile. One after another of the streaking laser shots searched after him, inching in toward his flesh.
The other two killers stood side by side, their arms folded across their chests, watching impassively. They both wished to see Rockson dead, but in their hearts they hoped C’hing Chow would fail and their chance would come. For the man who killed Ted Rockson would reap rewards beyond his dreams—would, at least for a time, be officially designated as the martial artist extraordinaire. And what meant more to them than even the money, the mansion, the women they would receive as reward—for the man who killed the ultimate American would achieve immortality.
Rockson knew he had only seconds before one of the million-degree flashes burnt into him.
Once a knee or throat shot was made, he knew the Tai Chi killer would close in and send out a barrage of beams that would burn him to the bone.
He searched frantically through his mind for a weakness in the assassin. Tai Chi was based on routing—the body sending all its energy down to the ground, centered like a tree in the earth. If he could break the man’s contact with the ground, he could deprive him of his power. But like all fighting plans, it was easier thought than done. Rockson was in full evasive maneuvers now, spinning around like a whirling-dervish, constantly changing his location like a mini-tornado that didn’t quite know where it was heading. The sizzling white beams shot out again and again barely missing the Doomsday Warrior.
Suddenly Rock stopped in his tracks, sensing the Tai Chi master just behind him. He dropped to the ground, letting his knees fold up like an accordion as a laser burst ripped into the air where his head had been a fraction of a second before. Now, it had to now. In a half crouch, Rockson vaulted forward with all the power of his iron-muscled legs. He slammed into the assassin’s knees buckling them in half. The master fell forward flying over Rock’s back and crashed into the granite floor of the cave, instantly trying to regain his balance. But Rockson didn’t give him a chance, flipping over with the speed of a tiger and landing on the man’s chest, once again knocking him to the ground. C’hing Chow tried to raise the laser wand but Rockson slammed his fist into the man’s wrist and the death weapon flew several feet off, rolling over on the stony ground.
The two men looked at each other for the barest moment—each seeing only death in the other’s pupils. Then Rock slammed the blade of his right hand down into the assassin’s throat. Again and again he struck—five times, crushing the windpipe in a splatter of blood and fragmented adam’s apple. C’hing Chow’s face took on a look of ultimate surprise—as if it was impossible that this dirty rebel American could have hurt him. Then a fountain of blood erupted from his mouth and he ceased his struggles, as cold and motionless as the stone beneath his back.
Rock rose wearily from the ground, knowing it was just the start. There were two—maybe many more to go, and already he was ready to go home and climb in bed. But he had miles to go and blood to spill before he could rest. He stood straight up and turned. His two waiting adversaries looked on with a certain satisfaction. Now they would get their chance.
Matsu—the Goju Karate master stepped forward, rolling up his thick white-cloth sleeves. “Chow was old and feeble,” he said by way of explanation to the Doomsday Warrior. “I am young and powerful. Now—now you will die, Rockson. But I will make it quick for you. Little pain. I wish only to destroy, not to torture.”
“Oh how kind,” Rock said. “It’s nice to fight like humanitarians.”
The karate killer came forward, set in a rigid fighting stance, low to the ground, legs wide apart, arms half-crossed with clenched iron-hard fists pointed at the Doomsday Warrior. Though the assassin was about Rockson’s height he seemed nearly twice as wide, built like a human rhino, with muscular arms that made Rockson’s own steel strength seem like a child’s. Rock grabbed his bayonet up from the cavern floor.
The two men circled each other warily, Matsu moving with stamping movements, slamming each foot down with an explosive contact on the ground. His mouth was set in a half-smile, twisting up at the right side as if he found it all quite amusing. Rockson knew his style—Hard Goju—one of the most deadly karate styles ever developed. But also one of the most rigid—without fluidity, based solely on sheer force. Well, let him make his moves, Rock thought as he breathed out, making his own body as relaxed and supple as possible.
Suddenly, as if a fuse had ignited his explosive power, Matsu came forward, a blurring whirlwind of kicks and punches. The speed of the blows amazed the Doomsday Warrior. The man was more than pure muscle, a honed death machine. Rock blocked each blow, keeping as loose as possible, merely slapping the strikes aside. His years of training had taught him that the lightest block will serve to deflect oncoming blows, merely guiding it off in another direction. Let the other put out the strength. Rock had no interest in proving his manhood.
But the ceaseless stream of lightning-fast kicks and roundhouse kicks was almost impossible to keep up with as the Doomsday Warrior backed off, trying to protect himself. Matsu feinted with a forward kick and then stopped, spinning his whole body around with a backward spinning kick. The blow caught Rock in the solar plexus, lifting him right off the ground and sending him flying backward a good six feet. He landed on his back, rolled over and in a flash was up again. Matsu turned to the third assassin standing nearby and grinned. “I think it will soon be all over.” The white silk-robed Kung Fu master stood expressionless. He had seen many fights. This one was not over. And Matsu was showing the Achilles heel of many a great fighter—overconfidence.
Rockson sensed it too, the ego of the man, so sure that he was undefeatable. The Doomsday Warrior knew that the way to fight a man was not to battle his strength but to bring out his weaknesses. A plan formed in Rock’s mind, a long shot, but all that he had. He again began circling Matsu, holding the glimmering bayonet blade straight out in his hand. The Goju fighter’s foot flashed up like a rattler and slammed the blade into the air, spinning it end-over-end to the floor yards away. Instantly Matsu closed in again, releasing a windmill of punches and kicks. Rock blocked each one, spinning his hands in tight circles, guiding each strike off to the side. But the man’s energy was amazing as he just kept coming forward, a nonstop, one-man armada.
Rock made a move to the left and as Matsu followed, jumped to the opposite side, letting loose his own stiff side kick at the assassin’s stomach. But the Goju assassin’s defensive reflexes were as finely honed as his attack. He met the kick with a stiff elbow block, slamming Rockson’s leg around, nearly throwing him to the ground.
So much for that, Rock thought to himself, impressed more than anything with the man’s speed. He had thought Chen one man as fast, or possibly faster than himself. But this overmuscled killer was as quick as anyone he had ever encountered in his entire life. His defense seemed impenetrable. Time for Plan B. Rock took a step backward regaining his balance as Matsu once again came forward, an unending storm
of feet and fists. This time, the Doomsday Warrior let the blows come into contact with him, catching them with his hands at the very last second. The timing had to be perfect or he would take the full brunt. He backed off, pulling his head sharply to the side as if being struck by the full force. Matsu advanced, thinking he was destroying Rockson as it seemed that virtually all his strikes were making contact. Rockson’s head snapped around again and again, his body half bent over as Matsu’s foot slammed into his stomach. The Goju assassin pushed Rock all the way back to the far cave wall, with a punishing barrage of blows. Why, he was virtually destroying the man. Was this the great Ted Rockson—the toughest Freefighter in America? Matsu barked out a contemptuous laugh and came in for the deathblow. With Rock’s back right up against the stone wall, Matsu planted his right foot solidly on the ground and let loose with a cannon-like explosion from his left leg. The kick seemed to glue Rock to the wall, his eyes rolling in his head. He threw his arms over his face as if seeking protection and sank slowly to the ground in apparent defeat.
Matsu stood looking down at the “Great Warrior” with a wide smirk. “Bye-bye Ted Rockson, I’ll see you in hell.”
He raised his foot to slam down on the Doomsday Warrior’s head and suddenly felt a surge of electric pain shoot through his right knee as Rockson’s foot shot up like a rocket and smashed the knee-cap into fragments. Matsu fell to the floor, instantly pulling himself backward, out of range of his opponent. They both rose and faced each other, Matsu hobbling on the leg. His eyes suddenly seemed stripped of their superiority and filled with a dark fear that Matsu had never before known. No man had ever damaged him before. He edged backward from Rockson whipping out a cloth strip from beneath his gi and wrapping it around the knee so he could walk.