Chapter 61
I IMMEDIATELY WHIPPED back my head.
Remember how fast I can run?
Well, my individual body parts can bob and weave at hyperspeed, too.
When the SEAL’s fist sailed past the point where he thought my face should be, all he saw was a flesh-colored blur. So he tried again, this time with a right hook.
On the second punch, I think my head whooshing out of the way gave his knuckles windburn.
So he tried kicking me.
I dodged right.
He fell on his butt.
When he recovered and came at me with a second, soccer-style kick, I leaped up and landed behind him before he’d even completed his follow-through. His head swung back and forth a few times as he tried to figure out where I’d gone.
I tapped him on the shoulder to help him out. “Back here, sir.”
He spun around.
“Stand still, kid.”
“Not a wise strategy, sir.”
He came at me with both hands, trying to throttle me.
I ducked down into a squat so fast that I swirled up a dust cloud like the Tasmanian Devil.
The SEAL nearly shattered his fingers when his hands locked in the space my neck had occupied a split second earlier.
“I’m gonna rip your heart out of your chest and show it to you while it’s still beating, boy!”
Okay, I may have been the teenager in this fight, but the twentysomething SEAL could definitely win a medal for Most Immature. He was driven by sheer rage and kept flailing at me even as I zipped and zoomed out of reach.
“Fight me, kid!”
“I am!”
Hey, there’s no rule that says you must always beat your opponent with brute force. Sometimes you can just wait him out and wear him down. Call it my siege strategy—a prolonged and persistent effort that weakens the enemy to the point of ultimate surrender. Yes, I could’ve transformed myself into a brick wall and let Mr. Machismo land one punch that would’ve shattered every spindly bone in his fist, but, like I said, we needed every soldier and sailor we could muster to go up against Abbadon.
The Navy SEAL was as tough as he looked. He kept coming at me. For a full hour.
Most of the other soldiers got bored with our zero-contact pas de deux. I saw Dana yawn. Joe went back into the kitchen for a second helping of bacon, sausage, and ham, taking a couple of Black Ops guys with him.
Finally, after an hour and sixteen minutes (I’m guessing a world record for a boxing match with zero points scored), the Navy SEAL—drenched in sweat and gasping for breath—collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground.
“Emma?” I called out. She was, once again, geared up to be our company medic.
She rushed over to the fallen SEAL with a canteen full of Orange Elephant, the much more potent (and pungent) Alpar Nokian version of Red Bull. Two sips and you’re totally revitalized.
One sip is all it takes if you’re human.
“Outstanding, Daniel,” the Navy SEAL conceded when the Orange Elephant kicked in and he remembered how his legs worked. “I’m impressed. The name’s Lieutenant Russell,” he said, thrusting out his right hand. “You lead. I’ll follow. Heck, kid—I’d follow you into hell itself.”
“Good,” I said, grasping his hand firmly in mine. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going.”