Now, it would come down to lawyers and money. CyberNation would take care of her. She had seen to that. But her insurance to that end might be a liability if it fell into the wrong hands. Best she attend to that, right now—
38
Michaels stared at the man. The ship’s gym was a fair-sized room with wall-to-wall mirrors and a thick carpet, exercise machines around the perimeter and mostly open in the center. Santos circled around a treadmill and leaped into a dive at the floor, hit on his hands, and did a front handspring directly toward him.
Michaels had never seen anything like this—!
Despite his training to go in when attacked, however, Michaels sectored off to his right, and the heel missed his nose by an inch. A good move, it turned out: If he’d gone in, he would have eaten it.
What the hell was this? Some kind of demented gymnastics?
The black man landed on his feet, then twirled around into a crouch facing Michaels. He danced from side to side, raising and lowering himself from almost upright into a full squat and back as if he were some kind of a crazed jack-in-the-box.
Reflections of Santos matched him in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
This was surreal, like something out of a Bruce Lee movie.
Santos had beaten a man to death, according to Jay, so let’s not forget, he is dangerous.
Michaels kept himself angled at forty-five degrees, left foot forward, one hand covering high-line the other low-line, not moving.
“What kind of crooked stance is that?” Santos asked, grinning. “Not karate, not jujitsu. Not, for sure, Capoeira.”
Capoeira? That rang a bell. It was the South American fighting style the African slaves either created or brought with them from the Old Continent to the New World. Acrobatic stuff, but that was pretty much all he knew about it. He had heard Toni talk about it. That would fit. Santos was from Brazil.
“Welcome to O-Jôgo, homem branco!” The man leaped up and did a back flip, landed easily, one foot hitting before the other, one-two! He laughed.
Michaels felt another moment of panic. Get a grip here!
Santos shuffled to Michaels’s right, almost as if dancing to some unheard tune.
Michaels didn’t move. Let him dance. He wasn’t doing any damage out there.
Santos jinked in, just at the edge of kicking range, then jumped back, trying to draw the attack.
Michaels held his ground.
The black man smiled. “You know something, don’t you, Mr. White Man Federal Agent? But what is it, White? How well does it work?”
“Come and find out.”
“Oh, yes, I will.”
Santos shuffled the other way, stepped in, and feinted a high kick. He was too far away to connect, and outside Michaels’s range. Michaels stayed where he was.
“You waiting for me to make a mistake?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Santos laughed. Then he twirled and whirled and dropped, spun into a kind of crabbed cartwheel, and somehow ate up the space between them. His kick was low, and while Michaels dropped his stance, turned, and managed to get a sweeping block down, the kick was too powerful to do more than slightly deflect it. It glanced off his thigh instead of hitting it square on, but it still hurt even in passing.
Michaels should have blocked it, but it wasn’t major. The goal here was not so much to win as it was to not-lose. The winner was the guy who got to go home, under his own steam, and well enough to be able to hug his family.
Santos shifted back and forth from foot to foot, waving his arms in a pattern that was probably supposed to be hypnotic. “Not bad for an old man,” he said. “What you call this, Branco?”
Branco. Must mean “white.” “Does it matter?”
“Just curious. Always lookin’ to educate myself more.”
“I’ll tell you all about it after we’re done. Maybe you can find a teacher in prison.”
Santos laughed, a deep belly rumble. “That’s funny. You expectin’ to be around after we’re done, me in jail? No way. Tell me now.”
“I don’t think so,” Michaels said. He pivoted to follow Santos as he circled, switching his hands from high to low, still in the open-gate stance.
“Good economy,” Santos said, nodding. “No wasted motions. Maybe I let you live so you can tell me about this. Chinese, maybe? Burmese? Why don’t I know it?”
“You need to get out more. Lots of things you don’t know. We have the ship.”
“Maybe. But you don’t have Santos.”
Michaels took a deep breath. He let half of it out. “Relax, Alex,” he said quietly to himself.
The days he’d practiced the mental exercise Toni had showed him paid off. He dropped lower, with just enough tension to stay upright. His breathing deepened, and he felt much looser. Considering his current situation, this was more than passing extraordinary.
Santos raised an eyebrow. “What did you just do there, Mr. Federal Agent?”
Michaels smiled. “Bring your pretty little dance closer and see.” It was, Toni had always taught him, good silat to bait an opponent. Maybe it would make him angry enough to lose control, do something stupid. Probably not this guy, who looked as if he’d been carved out of stone and was just as impervious to trash-talk as he would be a hammer, but it didn’t hurt to try.
“I will, don’t you worry. But we have time, yes? No reason to rush. We might make the game last a while.”
Santos feinted a kick and punch, then spun and dropped, put his hands down on the floor, and shot out a mule kick with his left foot, low, aimed for Michaels’s knee—
Michaels sectored to the inside, blocked the kick, and threw a snap kick of his own at Santos’s groin—
Santos twirled away, and Michaels’s heel hit him on the thigh. The glancing blow didn’t seem to hurt him, but at least it connected.
Santos whirled back around and did some kind of acrobatic twist, ending in a back fist at Michaels’s head—
Michaels stepped in, his right fist covering his face, and did a block hit—
Santos leaned away, slipping the punch, but not quite enough—Michaels got one knuckle solidly into the other man’s forehead.
Santos backed off, shook his head. “Good one,” he said.
He came back immediately, dropped into a one-legged squat, and swept with his other leg extended—
Michaels didn’t expect the sweep from that angle—it caught his left ankle. He started to lose his balance, pushed off with his right foot, and managed to hop over the still-sweeping leg and come down without falling. He stepped forward and into a closed gate, right foot ready to kick or beset if Santos stepped in.
Santos did another twisting aerial move away. He came down lightly ten feet from Michaels. “I like this stuff you do. It’s tight, no wasted moves. Come on, tell me what it is so I can learn it. It will make my game better. Tell me, in case you aren’t able to afterward.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Michaels said. But he was worried about it. He wished he had a knife. Might as well wish for a gun. A hand grenade or a tank would be useful, too.
Santos laughed. “You worried, Branco?”
“Nah, I just don’t want to be late for dinner. You’re the one who should be worried. See, I know what your dance is—it’s Capoeira. You don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“Let’s see!”
Santos flew at him—
The wound was minor, the handgun bullet had punched a hole through Howard’s side exactly where the vest tab left a tiny gap between the front and side panels. The slug had caught mostly skin and fat, maybe three inches above his belt. Another inch to the inside, and the body armor would have stopped it. An inch farther out and it would have missed entirely. Bad luck. A freak shot. What you got for not using your own gear.
It hadn’t done any crucial damage, though, and while his shirt was ruined and the nick oozed some, he wasn’t going to bleed out from it. He would worry about it later.
The man
who’d shot him had taken Howard’s return fire square in the middle of his chest. He hadn’t been wearing a vest, and the Medusa’s two .357 semijacketed hollowpoints had punched holes right through his sternum, no more than a couple inches apart.
Julio would like that. A nice group. And so much for not killing anybody. Well. The guy should have thought about that before he shot Howard.
“General?” Gridley said, “You okay?”
“I’ve hurt myself worse shaving. I’ll put a Band-Aid on it when I get a minute.”
The voice on the LOSIR was Julio’s: “We have the ship secured, General.”
Howard laughed. He had never felt more alive. Risk was a part of life, he knew that now. And this was what he did, who he was. He was a man of war. A soldier. Death came to all, eventually, but he couldn’t stop living in the meanwhile. “Good work, Lieutenant. Where are you?”
“With the computers. Deck D, amidships.”
“We’ll see you in a few minutes. Discom.”
Gridley shook his head. “I’m gonna stop going out with you. Last time, I nearly got killed by some psycho drug fiend in California. This field work gets old fast.”
“You get a fix on the commander?”
Gridley looked at his virgil. “Yeah, his virgil is about a hundred and fifty feet that way.” He pointed. “But I can’t get an altitude on him—he could be on the top deck or down below.”
“Let’s go find him. Our squads will mop up the rest of these bozos. Stay behind me.”
“You don’t have to tell me that twice. Saji would never forgive me if I messed up the wedding by getting myself killed.”
Howard did a tactical reload, using a Bianchi speed strip to replace the two fired shells in the revolver. He snapped the cylinder shut, and headed past the row of slot machines and toward the blackjack tables. There was a corridor past those that led through a kitchen to a cafeteria. Michaels would have to be past that, according to Gridley’s GPS sig. He brought up the briefing map in his mind’s eye: past that, on this level, was a stairway leading up and down. Up was the main deck. Down was a gymnasium. There was an access to the locked-off computer deck that way, too.
Worry about it when you get there, John. Because if you aren’t more careful, you might not get there . . .
“Just ahead,” Jay said.
Howard nodded. He looked at Jay. “I’ll go through first. Try not to shoot me in the back.”
Jay laughed.
Santos came in, fists and knees driving, but Michaels knew how to deal with that—he launched himself to meet the attack—
Santos disappeared. He dropped into a weird, crablike pose, feet extended out in front, hands in back, face up but almost lying on the ground. Stupid position, his crotch was wide open. Michaels stepped in to kick Santos’s balls for a field goal—
It was a trap!
Santos snapped one foot up and caught Michaels in the thigh, just missing his groin. The force was enough to spin Michaels around, and he nearly lost his balance. He stumbled, managed to get his feet back under him—
Santos came up, twirled in, and it was all Michaels could do to cover as a quick series of punches bounced off his arms, shoulders, and one against the side of his head that cracked him into a blinding flash of red—
The man had fists like rocks—!
Michaels felt for Santos, not using his eyes but his body. He threw his knee and right elbow, caught a hip with the knee, the side of the man’s neck with the elbow. Not pretty, but enough to back him off—
Santos shook his head, whirled around, stepped out of range. He nodded. “I thought I had you then, good recovery. Now we havin’ fun.”
Michaels knew this was psychological warfare. He’d connected with two solid shots, and Santos didn’t seem overly bothered by either. The neck hit had to hurt, but he was not going to let Michaels know that.
“Your head okay, Branco?”
Michaels was still rattled from the head punch, but he couldn’t let that show, either. “Why wouldn’t it be? Did you hit me? Is that the best you got?”
Santos managed a smile as he circled, spiraling slightly inward. “Best I got? I’m not even warmed up yet. Let me show you. I am younger, stronger, faster, and more skilled. You have enough of your game to see this, no?”
Damned straight about that. He was better than Michaels, and he knew it. He wasn’t going full out, he was playing, as if this was a friendly sparring match. Michaels felt it. He was in trouble here.
Well. Wasn’t that what silat was supposed to train you for? To stay with somebody who was stronger, faster, and as well-trained?
Yeah. But this guy was some kind of world-class fighter. He probably trained for hours every day. He had the edge. He knew it, and Michaels knew it, too. Silat would let you keep up with most people, but it didn’t make you invincible, certainly not at his level of ability.
But there was one thing he had going for him, and maybe he could stall the guy long enough for that to happen.
Michaels circled to his left, staying low. He said, “You want to hear a story?”
Santos flashed a smile. “Is it a funny story?”
“I think so.”
“Go ahead. I need a good laugh. Been a bad day.”
They circled, each to his left.
“Once upon a time, there was a gathering of animals in the woods. They talked about the rain, the sunshine, the state of the world. At one point, the talk turned to which creature was the most deadly in the forest, and Tiger proclaimed that he was the most dangerous animal.
“ ‘Really,’ Dog said. ‘Why is that?’
“Tiger laughed. ‘Just look at me! Compared to you, I am bigger, stronger, and faster! My teeth are longer, my claws are sharper! I could break your neck with a single swipe of one paw! Is this not true?’
“ ‘It is true,’ Dog admitted.
“ ‘Then you agree that I am the deadliest animal in the forest.’
“ ‘Maybe not,’ Dog said.
“This angered Tiger greatly, and he roared his displeasure.”
Santos grinned, gave a little foot feint, but did not follow up. Michaels shifted his hands, but did not take the bait.
“Just making sure that you’re awake, White.”
“I’m awake.”
“Go on with your story. Tigre is angry.”
“Yes. And he looks at Dog and says, ‘So, you say I am not the deadliest animal? Who is, then? You?’
“ ‘Not me,’ Dog said.
“ ‘Tell me! Tell me now, or I will kill you!’ And he reared up and prepared to leap on Dog. But before he could attack, there came an explosion, and Tiger suddenly fell over dead.
“There behind the animals stood Man, smoke curling from the muzzle of a rifle.
“And Dog smiled his dog-smile and said, ‘I am not the deadliest animal in the forest. But I have a friend . . .’ ”
Santos smiled. “That’s not such a funny story, Branco.”
“Oh, I don’t know” came a voice from behind him. “I thought it was pretty good.”
Santos stepped back and half-spun.
A black man, another tourist-not-a-tourist, stood there, aiming a handgun at him. He held the gun in both hands, and it was pointed right at Santos’s heart. A second man stood behind him. He had a gun, too.
Too far away to get to them before they could shoot. Hmm.
“Commander,” the newly arrived black man said.
“General. I am extremely glad to see you.”
Santos glared at branco. “You cheated.”
He smiled. “Yes. Cheating is good silat,” he said. “That’s the art I practice, by the way. Pukulan Pentjak Silat Serak. From Indonesia.”
“Ah.” Santos knew of the Indonesian forms. He had never faced anyone who played them before, but he had seen pictures, films. “Where is your skirt?”
“It’s a sarong, not a skirt—!”
Santos leaped, turned the jump into a dive and roll, and as he came up, made that i
nto another dive—
The gun went off, but a hair slow. The bullet burned across his back, the lightest of touches. A graze, that was all, nothing, no damage—
There was a large sealed window looking into the hallway just ahead of him. He was a step and a dive away from it . . .
The gun boomed again, loud in the enclosed space, and the bullet hit the glass in front of him, punched through, and spiderwebbed the glass with fractures. Good!
He launched himself at the cracked plate headfirst, hands and forearms up to cover his face. Hit!
He flew through the window in a spray of glass shards, tucked, rolled, hit the carpeted floor, came up, too much momentum, slammed into the corridor’s far wall. That shook many of the glass fragments on him loose. He grunted as he flattened against the wall, pushed off and L-stepped away, shoving hard with his left foot, moving to his right, as the third bullet punched through the wall where he had been a quarter-second ago. But now he was moving down the hall, ducking low, and gaining speed with each step. In two heartbeats, he was out of the line-of-fire, the angle on the window no good to the shooter anymore. He pumped for all he was worth, feet digging into the rug, leaning into it, almost a fall. He reached a juncture, cut to his right, skidded across that corridor and into the wall, hit on his left shoulder, bounced off, and kept sprinting.
He laughed, loudly. He had a small wound on his back, and there was blood coming from little cuts on his arms, the back of one hand, but he was gone. They would never catch him from behind. He would find a way off this ship. CyberNation might be mortally wounded, but that did not matter. He would get away. He would go home. He would count his gold and have the last laugh.
But first, there was one small piece of business he needed to finish. Then he could leave.
Chance had the pistol and the disk with the blackmail insurance on it. Nothing else was important enough to worry about, not now. She didn’t know how many of the invaders were on the ship, or if her people had had time to wipe the computers, but she would have time enough to destroy the disk, and that was all that she could do now. If they caught her, CyberNation’s lawyers would get her out of jail, and once that happened, she would disappear. She had half a dozen false identities ready for use, money stashed under those names. This was a big loss, but she would survive. She could start over, under another name. Work her way back up. It might even be fun, that kind of challenge.
Cybernation (2001) Page 31