He throws it fluidly. The motion is calm and beautiful. The spear disappears because it is coming straight at Hiro.
Hiro does not have time to adopt the proper stance, but this is fine since he has already adopted it. Whenever he has a katana in his hands he adopts it automatically, otherwise he fears that he may lose his balance and carelessly lop off one of his extremities. Feet parallel and pointed straight ahead, right foot in front of the left foot, katana held down at groin level like an extension of the phallus. Hiro raises the tip and slaps at the spear with the side of the blade, diverting it just enough; it goes into a slow sideways spin, the point missing Hiro just barely and entangling itself in a vine on Hiro’s right. The butt end swings around and gets hung up on the left, tearing out a number of vines as it comes to a stop. It is heavy, and traveling very fast.
Raven is gone.
Mental note: Whether or not Raven intended to take on a bunch of Crips and Enforcers singlehandedly tonight, he didn’t even bother to pack a gun.
Another burst of gunfire sounds from several rows over.
Hiro has been standing here for rather a long time, thinking about what just happened. He cuts through the next row of vines and heads in the direction of the muzzle flash, running his mouth: “Don’t shoot this way, T-Bone, I’m on your side, man.”
“Motherfucker threw a stick into my chest, man!” T-Bone complains.
When you’re wearing armor, getting hit by a spear just isn’t such a big deal anymore.
“Maybe you should just forget it,” Hiro says. He is having to cut his way through a lot of rows to reach T-Bone, but as long as T-Bone keeps talking, Hiro can find him.
“I’m a Crip. We don’t forget nothing.” T-Bone says. “Is that you?”
“No,” Hiro says. “I’m not there yet.”
A very brief burst of gunfire, rapidly cut off. Suddenly, no one is talking. Hiro cuts his way into the next row and almost steps on T-Bone’s hand, which has been amputated at the wrist. Its finger is still tanged in the trigger guard of a MAC-11.
The remainder of T-Bone is two rows away. Hiro stops and watches through the vines.
Raven is one of the largest men Hiro has seen outside of a professional sporting event. T-Bone is backing away from him down the row. Raven, moving with long confident strides, catches up with T-Bone and swings one hand up into T-Bone’s body; Hiro doesn’t have to see the knife to know it is there.
It looks as though T-Bone is going to get out of this with nothing worse than a sewn-on hand and some rehab work, because you can’t stab a person to death that way, not if he is wearing armor.
T-Bone screams.
He is bouncing up and down on Raven’s hand. The knife has gone all the way through the bulletproof fabric and now Raven is trying to gut T-Bone the same way he did Lagos. But his knife—whatever the hell it is—won’t cut through the fabric that way. It is sharp enough to penetrate—which should be impossible—but not sharp enough to slash.
Raven pulls it out, drops to one knee, and swings his knife hand around in a long ellipse between T-Bone’s thighs. Then he jumps over T-Bone’s collapsing body and runs.
Hiro gets the sense that T-Bone is a dead man, so he follows Raven. His intention is not to hunt the man down, but rather to maintain a very clear picture of where he is.
He has to cut through a number of rows. He rapidly loses Raven. He considers running as fast as he can in the opposite direction.
Then he hears the deep, lung-stretching rumble of a motorcycle engine. Hiro runs for the nearest street exit, just hoping to catch a glimpse.
He does, though it is a quick one, not a hell of a lot better than the graphic in the cop car. Raven turns to look at Hiro, just as he is blowing out of there. He’s right under a streetlight, so Hiro gets a clear look at his face for the first time. He is Asian. He has a wispy mustache that trails down past his chin.
Another Crip comes running out into the street half a second after Hiro, as Raven is pulling away. He slows for a moment to take stock of the situation, then charges the motorcycle like a linebacker. He is crying out as he does so, a war cry.
Squeaky emerges about the same time as the Crip, starts chasing both of them down the street.
Raven seems to be unaware of the Crip running behind him, but in hindsight it seems apparent that he has been watching his approach in the rearview mirror of the motorcycle. As the Crip comes in range, Raven’s hand lets go of the throttle for a moment, snaps back as if he is throwing away a piece of litter. His fist strikes the middle of the Crip’s face like a frozen ham shot out of a cannon. The Crip’s head snaps back, his feet are lifted off the ground, he does most of a backflip and strikes the pavement, hitting first with the nape of his neck, both arms slamming out straight onto the road as he does so. It looks a lot like a controlled fall, though if so, it has to be more reflex than anything.
Squeaky decelerates, turns, and kneels down next to the fallen Crip, ignoring Raven.
Hiro watches the large, radioactive, spear-throwing killer drug lord ride his motorcycle into Chinatown. Which is the same as riding it into China, as far as chasing him down is concerned.
He runs up to the Crip, who is lying crucified in the center of the street. The lower half of the Crip’s face is pretty hard to make out. His eyes are half open, and he looks quite relaxed. He speaks quietly. “He’s a fucking Indian or something.”
Interesting idea. But Hiro still thinks he’s Asian.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing, asshole?” Squeaky says. He sounds so pissed that Hiro steps away from him.
“That fucker ripped us off—the suitcase burned,” the Crip mumbles through a mashed jaw.
“So why didn’t you just write it off? Are you crazy, fucking with Raven like that?”
“He ripped us off. Nobody does that and lives.”