By the time she reached the warehouse, Max's body was back on full alert. Her eyes roved ceaselessly and her muscles were ready for instantaneous action. She was a little surprised she hadn't run into Jasen yet; she'd half-expected him to drop down from some rooftop when she was a few blocks away, try for the element of surprise. But there'd been nothing, just the quiet patter of the rain on the streetlamps. She wasn't sure if she should be insulted or relieved.
She hauled open the cheap metal door, and there he was, standing solitary in the center of the open space, the harsh overhead lights shadowing his eyes into darkness. His arms hung loosely at his sides, ready for motion. Well, he gets points for drama, she thought as she shut the door behind her, careful not to turn her back on him.
He checked his watch. "Right on time."
"Punctuality's one of my many virtues," she sneered. He grinned back, blue eyes on fire. The banter was tradition, and they both knew it, a cover for surreptitiously checking out an opponent. Max scanned him head to foot, looking for anything out of place or suspicious. No guns, probably, unless he had an ankle holster—she'd have to watch out for that. But the odds were he'd rejected that idea for the same reason she had: too easy to have it used against you in some way, too easy to lose control and lose the fight in an instant.
"Sure you don't want to frisk each other? That has some possibilities." His tone was suggestive, mocking.
"Tempting, but I'll pass. I'd like to keep my food in my stomach for the moment."
She'd approached him slowly, stopped just out of reach, her eyes locked on his.
"Ready?" he asked.
Her quiet response rang with challenge. "You have no idea."
And for one moment, they were in perfect accord, feral grins mirroring each other. Slowly, wordlessly, they both sank into defensive postures, feet planted, bodies balanced and loose, hands raised to attack or defend. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"Mark," he whispered--the official command to begin a training skirmish--and lunged at her.
Halfway through the lunge he broke it off, springing sideways onto his hands in a kind of flattened cartwheel, legs slicing through the air. Capoeira, Max's brain whispered, soldier identifying fighting style, but her body was already moving, bracing hands and swinging legs in an opposing arc. They met in midair, calves crashing together, rolled and came to their feet, circling, grinning. Max attacked next, changing the style, hands moving in a blinding succession of punches blocked twisting into backhands blocked until she was threw in a knee to the groin when she hoped he was distracted. His own knee came up to block as he twisted away, braced a hand across her chest and went for a sweep, but she anticipated and backflipped away, landing lightly just out of his reach. Both of them were beginning to breathe the slightest bit harder, and Max felt a fierce joy at the hint of surprise in Jasen's expression as they circled, circled.
But then he was at her again, palms flattened and fingers curled to attack with the ridges of his hands, maybe numb a few muscles. She grabbed and blocked and counterattacked where she could, both of them scoring enough hits to make lips split and limbs ache. Rational thought deserted and instinct reigned. Finally he half-slid through her defenses and caught her with an awkward backfist to the head. Even off-center, the blow was enough to make her blink. Suddenly she felt a trail of fire along her ribs, where her shirt had ridden up. She jumped back automatically, not entirely surprised at the glint of metal in his hand. His pant leg was caught on the edge of that ankle sheath she'd forgotten to watch for. No gun, then, but a knife, and she cursed herself for not seeing it coming even as she marveled again at his speed.
"No weapons?" she spat, holding her ribs. The cut was shallow, but long, and bleeding.
He shrugged, all feigned innocence. "Oops. Guess I lied."
He came at her again, and again she blocked as best she could, feeling tiny stings across her shoulders and forearms as she bided her time. Then he put just the tiniest amount too much of his weight behind a lunge and she was ready, swung to the side and caught his arm, using his momentum to throw him away from her. With a little space between them, she reached beneath the waistband of her loose pants to where she'd tied the chain. She'd found it on the way to the warehouse, discarded in an alley, and had a feeling it might come in handy. Once again, Jasen's face reflected pleased surprise as she stretched the silver links in front of her, taut between her hands.
"I lied, too," she told him sweetly, and his short, wild laugh echoed off the walls.
The presence of the weapons escalated the fight to a fever pitch that burned like a slow fire: white-hot, patient, and deadly. Steel rang on steel as the knife slid off of the chain, time and time again. She was bleeding from a dozen small wounds and he stung from well-placed welts, but there was nothing in the world for either of them but survival, the sweep and speed and strength of the dance. Then he lunged at her with the knife and she saw her chance, wrapped the chain tight around his wrist and brought his hand down hard on her upraised knee. The knife skittered across the floor, knocked from his suddenly boneless hand, but just as she felt a thrill of victory his other arm swept under her knee and threw her backwards onto the ground.
Instinct was a fraction of a second too late to cushion her as her head hit the concrete with a sickening crack. Her vision went wild and black, and she felt Jasen's weight on top of her, pinning her legs with his knees and stretching his forearm across her throat as he had the day before in the alley. She struggled, but the combination of the blow to her head and the denial of oxygen to a body desperately in need of it confused her. Suddenly she was back at Manticore, seven years old and terrified, drowning and being beaten at the same time, impossibly small. Her eyes went huge and bottomless with fear, all the memories she thought she'd put behind her surging to the surface to overtake her. Her hand scrabbled desperately for the chain, thrown out of reach in her fall. Her arms flailed, fingers curving into claws, but it was no use. Her vision was beginning to gray. The iron bar across her throat seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. Panic bubbled uncontrollably; she screamed with no voice: Don't take me back there don't take me don't take me don't take me—
Then suddenly she felt the weight lifted, thrown to the floor beside her. For a moment she could do nothing more than lie there, taking in huge gulps of air. She rolled on her side, startled to see her opponent convulsing uncontrollably next to her. A small syringe hung from his neck, rapidly becoming dislodged by the jerky disarray of his body. He was still lucid, though, and his eyes fixed fiercely on hers, swimming with defiance and a strange sort of amusement.
Disoriented, still gasping, her gaze darted crazily around the room until she caught sight of a familiar figure in a wheelchair, with what looked like a hollow tube resting in his lap. CO2 powered blowgun, the military corner of her mind babbled automatically, uselessly. He looked horrified, and after a moment she realized it was because of her. He was shouting at her, but she couldn't make out the words. At the sight of him, her world snapped marginally back towards normalcy; she became slightly less Maxie and slightly more Max. But she had a long way yet to go. She shied back as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Easy." Bling's voice was soothing. "Come on, Max, we've got to get out of here."
She stared up at him, her brain refusing to function. He tugged at her arm, and Logan's voice penetrated her stupor: she caught the word "Lydecker."
"Come on!" Bling urged her, more forceful now.
"I need to--" On her knees, she moved towards Jasen, who was still shaking bizarrely on the concrete, still watching her with animal eyes. She looked around for the knife, trying without much success to think clearly.
"Max!" Logan was right next to her now. He grabbed her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. "There's no time. He's right behind you. We have to get out of here, now."
The next time Bling pulled, she rose to her feet. She thought she could hear engines closing in, distant but approaching. Humvees. If she could just think… But there was no time. Logan grabbed her hand. "Max!" he shouted. "Now!"
"All right," she agreed finally, and stumbled towards the exit. Later, she would have sworn she felt Jasen's eyes on her all the way to the door.
The engines were louder now, closing fast to the north. Max all but threw herself into Logan's Aztec, pulling him in next to her in a last burst of adrenaline. Bling collapsed Logan's chair in a single practiced move and slid it in after them before diving into the driver's seat and gunning the engine. The gray Aztec, running with no headlights, slipped out of sight just as the first humvees swung around the corner, intent on the warehouse.
Max kept a vigilant watch out the back window for the first half mile or so until she'd assured herself they'd escaped unnoticed. Satisfied, she had turned around and was settling herself in the seat when suddenly all her energy seemed to go out of her in one abrupt rush. She sagged against Logan, too exhausted and confused to speak.
"Here," he said, sliding over and easing her down until her head was pillowed on his leg. She looked up at him gratefully, and he was immensely relieved to see that most of the chilling wildness had receded from her dark eyes, replaced by simple fatigue. Her eyelids drifted shut, her breathing became deep and regular. Silence blanketed the car as Logan toyed gently with the ends of her hair and stared out into the darkness.
------------------------------------
Fifteen armed men in head-to-toe black burst through the door of the warehouse, brandishing semi-automatic weapons. And all fifteen of them wore identical, comical expressions of surprise to find themselves focusing their state-of-the-art laser sights on empty air. Heads swiveled in disbelief. A knife glinting red at the edges and a length of chain were the only evidence of any occupants other than rats. Amazement faded into dread as they exchanged nervous glances, wondering which one of them was going to take the fall for this one.
"Search the area!" barked the commander, but he'd been working with Lydecker for years. He cursed inwardly. A few seconds' lead was all an X-5 needed. Still, he had to go through the motions.
A hundred yards off the end of the pier, cloud-filtered moonlight illuminated the outline of a dark head. White teeth flashed briefly in the night before the figure disappeared under the water.
-----------------------------------------
Whew! That was tough to write. Thanks very much to my boyfriend for helping "choreograph" the fight scene… I'm curious as to how it sounded to you all, though--believable? Too vague? Too specific? Worthy of the climactic meeting between these two epic foes? :)