8
Fine Point Salle d’Armes
Washington, D.C.
Thorn was sweating, and he hadn’t expected that.
He was fencing Jamal, just the two of them, in the small, threadbare salle he’d opened up a little while earlier.
This was his dream—or at least it was one of his dreams.
Thorn himself had come up the hard way, from a hardscrabble existence on the reservation, and fencing had been an escape for him. He wanted to help make it an escape for others, too.
So a few years ago he’d quietly bought this tiny gym in D.C., refurbished it slightly, and reopened as a salle. Then he’d put the word out on the street that he was open and looking for people who were interested in fencing.
Jamal was one of the few who’d responded.
Thorn toyed with the idea of putting in more time here, really putting forth the effort to grow this place into something big. Something like what had happened in New York City a few years back. He could hire a coach, reach out to the community, and put together something that could really make a difference in people’s lives.
But not now. A coach alone wouldn’t be enough. It would take a tremendous effort by someone with vision, with commitment to the dream. And since it was his vision, his dream, it pretty much had to be him pushing it. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not as long as Net Force demanded so much of him. But maybe, someday . . .
Jamal came in fast. Thorn threw a quick high-line parry and riposted to the open wrist, but the wrist wasn’t there. It had been a feint.
Jamal’s point dropped, circling beneath Thorn’s bell guard, then pressed lightly on the outside of Thorn’s blade, guiding it further inside and then leaping off for a quick strike to Thorn’s shoulder.
Thorn smiled and leaned back, letting Jamal’s point fall short. That had been a good try.
As he leaned back, he allowed his guard to drop further, then brought his own point up sharply, striking behind Jamal’s bell and landing solidly on the heel of his palm.
“Hey!” Jamal said. “How’d you do that? I should have had your shoulder!”
Thorn grinned. He was aware of Marissa seated on a bleacher off to the side, but he wasn’t fencing any harder just because she was watching.
Well, maybe he was fencing a little harder. . . .
“Nice try,” he said. “You set it up beautifully. The thing is, you can’t think too much. If I’d been paying attention to what you were doing, trying to anticipate your next move, you’d have had me.”
Even through the mesh mask, Thorn could see his young opponent frown. “What, then?”
“It’s like I’ve said, Jamal, anticipation will get you killed—as it would have cost me a touch just now. No, there’s a different approach I want you think about. When you fence, what do you focus on? With your eyes, I mean? Where do you look?”
Jamal shrugged. “I don’t really focus on anything. You taught me that. I keep my eyes pointed pretty much straight ahead, but by not focusing I allow my peripheral vision to see more.”
Thorn nodded. “Exactly. Look at nothing, see everything.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s the same thing with your mind. Don’t focus. Be. Don’t react to the blade. Be the blade. Be the parry. Be the touch.”
Jamal shook his head. “You’ve said this before, but I still don’t get it.”
“You will. I’ve brought some books I think you’re ready for.” Thorn gestured over to where Marissa sat on the bleacher. There was a backpack on the floor next to her. Inside was a small selection of books he’d chosen specifically for Jamal. Heugel’s Zen and the Art of Archery. Musashi’s A Book of Five Rings. Smullyan’s The Tao Is Silent. A few others.
What he didn’t say was that he’d been bringing those same books now for six months, waiting for Jamal to reach the point where they would do him the most good.
Thorn also had two other stacks of books set aside, ready for the next steps in Jamal’s growth.
“Don’t think, huh?” Jamal asked.
“That’s right. Don’t think. Be.”
“Got it. All right, let’s try it again.”
And the dance was on once again.
Washington, D.C.
Carruth didn’t see it coming, there was no way he could have. Once there, he had no real choice.
He’d driven to a new rave club in Southeast, the Cairo Mirage. Carruth wasn’t a fan of such things, buncha idiots taking drugs and dancing until they fell over, but he’d met a drop-dead gorgeous redhead who ran some kind of program for troubled kids in Anacostia. She liked to party down at clubs, and she had told him she was gonna be there, so if he wanted to get next to her—and he did—he had to go where the action was.
A woman who looked that good was worth a little noise and effort.
Southeast wasn’t exactly the best section of town, but he wasn’t worried about street trash bothering him. He was big, strong, trained, armed, and could pass for a cop. The wolves usually had better sense than to bother a lion when there were so many sheep around.
The car was a rental, so if somebody boosted it while he was inside making nice with Ms. Red, it was no skin off his nose. He found an empty spot—a no-parking curb, but if he got a ticket, so what?—and wheeled the car into it. He got out, adjusted the heavy revolver on his hip under his sport coat, and cheeped the car’s alarm. The club was a block east, and it was still early, not yet 2100; ought not to have any problems at nine o’clock on a weeknight.
He was halfway there when an MPDC cruiser angled to the curb in front of him and the cop inside tapped the siren.
Carruth stopped and stared at the car. It was white, with the stylized American flag on the side. The door opened, and a pair of cops got out. They weren’t unsnapping holsters or anything, but they were definitely coming to talk to him.
“Evening, Officers,” he said. He smiled. What was this?
The nearer cop, a beefy guy almost as big as Carruth, probably about thirty, finished slipping his side-handle baton into his belt loop, watching Carruth all the time. “Need to ask you a couple of questions, buddy.”
Carruth kept smiling. “Sure, no problem.” But he was worried.
He was dressed in a nice jacket and slacks; he ought to look like a citizen. No reason to brace him. And no “Good evening, sir.” MPDC cops were usually polite to citizens. Not a good sign.
The second cop, shorter and thinner than the other one, and with a thin moustache, said, “Did you know there was a robbery a couple blocks back a few minutes ago? Somebody hit a convenience store.”
“I didn’t see anybody,” Carruth said. “I’m parked about half a block back, on my way to meet a lady at a club.”
The two cops approached a bit closer, but stayed well apart from each other. “Well, thing is, the robber was a big white guy in a sport coat.”
Jesus Christ, they had to be kidding—they thought he’d knocked over a 7-Eleven and he was just strolling down the f*cking street like he owned it?
Carruth laughed. “Wasn’t me. I’m not a robber, I’m just on my way to meet this woman.”
“Yeah, you said that,” Beefy said. “Mind if we see some ID?”
“No problem. My wallet is in my back pocket.”
“How about if I get that for you?” Moustache said, still smiling.
“Excuse me?”
Beefy put his hand on his Glock’s gun butt.
Nine-millimeter Glocks were dangerous guns—no safety, save for the split trigger, they often went off in the hands of a nervous cop when they weren’t supposed to go off. A lot of lawsuits had been settled by big cities where badly trained police accidentally cooked citizens with those Tupperware side arms, even with the heavier New York trigger. Carruth had no use for Glocks.
“You’re making a mistake,” Carruth said.
“Turn around, put your hands on the wall, walk your feet back, and spread ’em,” Beefy said. “We’ll apologize if we’re wrong.”
Oh, shit! If they found his revolver, he was gonna be in a world of trouble. Illegally concealed weapons were a big no-no in D.C., and at the very least, they could confiscate his BMF and put him in the local slammer until a lawyer could bust him loose.
That would not do. Lewis would have a conniption. And he didn’t want to lose his gun, no way.
“Okay, okay, no problem, take it easy.” Carruth started to turn to his right. When his hand was covered by his body, he snapped it down and grabbed for his revolver—
The two cops started yelling, clawing for their own side arms, but Carruth had the jump on them. He cleared leather, cocked the hammer as he drew, shoved the big revolver toward Beefy, who was all of two meters away, and pulled the trigger—
Even knowing how loud it was, the sound and vibration almost paralyzed Carruth. It was a big bomb going off in your face; the shock of it blasted your skin like a hot wind, and shooting one-handed, the recoil damned near jerked the gun out of his hand.
The protective Kevlar vest didn’t do the man any good. It was a center-punch shot, and even if it didn’t penetrate, it would be like being hit in the chest with a cannonball—the impact would break his sternum and ribs and concuss the heart like a sledgehammer.
Moustache cursed and brought his Glock up, but it went off while it was still pointed at the sidewalk. The jacketed slug ricocheted off the concrete and spanged into the wall behind Carruth as he dragged his revolver down from where it pointed at the sky. He grabbed it with his other hand, moving like a turtle, slow, oh, so slowly. . . .
Moustache’s Glock fired again, this time almost lined up, but the bullet went wide, to Carruth’s left, and he got his muzzle pointed and fired the second chamber—
Moustache collapsed, another center-of-mass hit the vest wouldn’t protect against, to join Beefy supine on the sidewalk.
Holy shit!
It was like the wrath of God. Two up, two down. He had most likely just killed a pair of Metro cops.
It was way past time to leave.
He looked around. Nobody else on the street close enough to ID him, not that he could see. But this place would be thick with police in five minutes and he needed to be gone!
Carruth holstered his weapon. He bent down, pulled a pair of surgical gloves from Beefy’s back pocket, put them on as he ran to the cruiser’s front door, and climbed into the vehicle. He hit the siren and light-bar controls and screeched away from the curb.
He had to get as far away as fast as he could.
This was bad. Very bad.