Flood (35 page)

55

THE WAREHOUSE LOOMED in sight. Max rolled in the front, slipped out from behind the wheel, and went back to close the door, all in one continuous motion. I knew he’d be hitting the switch to tell Flood the cargo had arrived.

Max opened the door on my side, I slid out, he walked around the back of the Plymouth, and opened the Cobra’s door. Wilson climbed out, stretched himself, yawned. He looked at Max, said, “He’s a zip . . .” in a surprised voice. I shrugged my shoulders in a what-can-you-do? gesture and pointed to the stairs. The Cobra started to climb, seemed to hesitate when he heard something, then realized it was just a radio. Hearing Hank Williams sing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” seemed to add a spring to his step. As he completed the first flight I slipped past him to show him the way to the second, where Flood would be waiting, leaving Max behind him. The Cobra was in a box, but not the box where he belonged—not yet.

I got to the door of Max’s temple and we couldn’t hear the music anymore. I pushed aside the bamboo so the Cobra would precede me, and we all went inside—

And there stood Flood in the black robes, in a room lit only by the flickering candles on the altar.

“What the fuck is . . . ?” He spun around to face me. He saw the double-barreled sawed-off leveled at his chest, and stopped. He glanced at Max and saw the warrior, now wearing the same black robes as Flood.

“Give me the passport,” I said, “and if your hands touch anything else you’re chopped meat.”

The Cobra reached slowly for his breast pocket, saying “Hey, look . . . man, look. I
got
it. It’s here. What’s going on . . . ?”

He placed the passport gently on my open palm. Flood stood watching—still as stone. I held the passport in one hand, slid my thumb inside and flipped it open to the first page. There was his picture—and MARTIN HOWARD WILSON in government lettering. A valid passport, just like he promised. I nodded to Flood and Max.

The Cobra stood with his hands at his sides, waiting to see if he’d passed the test. I prodded him forward with the scattergun until he was close enough to see the little red table. Close enough to see the metal spike with the dark wood handle wrapped in red silk. Close enough to see the picture of Sadie and Flower—to see his own photograph. Then he knew.

Max and I stepped back, away from him. I spoke to him in a calm voice—no more mystery. “Look, pal. It’s a job, you understand. This lady has a beef with you and she hired us to bring you here. Now it’s between you and her. We’re out of it. Only you don’t leave until it’s settled. That’s it.”

The Cobra stood there, staring straight ahead—his mouth was open, his breathing was bad. Then Flood spoke up, her voice thin and clear, without a tremor. “Martin Howard Wilson”—like a judge handing down a sentence—“you killed that child. Flower. Her people are dead. I am of the child’s blood and I want yours in payment—”

“What is this
shit
—”

“Shut up,” I told him, moving the shotgun for emphasis.

Flood went on as if nobody had spoken. “I will fight you. Now. In this room. On this ground. We fight to the death. Only one of us leaves this room. If you defeat me, you will be free to go.”

The Cobra looked at me. I nodded. “That’s the deal, pal. One of you leaves the room.”

“I beat this cunt and I leave? No problems?”

“No problems,” I said, and stepped back.

56

FLOOD BOWED TO Max, bowed to me, and turned to bow to the altar she had made. The Cobra unbuttoned his fatigue jacket with one hand, slowly, so as not to provoke me into blowing him away. He was wearing only a black T-shirt under the jacket, the butt of a small automatic protruded above his belt.

“Your choice,” I said, stepping slightly to my left. Max moved out of the line of fire.

The Cobra used only his thumb and index finger to pull it out—a nasty little .25-caliber Beretta, more than enough to do the job at close range. He held it by the butt and gently tossed it in my direction. It bounced off my thigh—my eyes never left him.

Still watching me, he knelt and unlaced his combat boots, took off his socks, put them on the floor. A look of profound disgust flashed across Max’s face.

I walked toward the Cobra: the scattergun backed him away until I was between him and the boots. A glance showed what I expected—a sheath stitched up one side of the boot, with the knife handle sticking out the top. I kicked the boots away and stepped back.

He looked over at me, giving it one last try. “Can I talk to you?”

I shook my head. He looked at Max’s face, saw his future, and turned to face his past.

Max and I faded back against the walls, leaving the Cobra and Flood alone on the deck. Flood shrugged her shoulders, causing the lovely silk robe to fall to the floor behind her. She faced the Cobra wearing a black jersey top with accordion folds in the shoulders over flowing white silk pants. Around her waist was a white sash, tied so that its tails revealed two black tips.

Flood flicked her foot and the discarded robe flew off the deck and came to rest against the altar. She spread her arms wide to the Cobra—and bounced toward him on the balls of her feet.

The Cobra ran to meet her, shifting his upper body so it was parallel to the ground and firing a sharp roundhouse kick off his right foot. Flood flowed under the kick without changing her position, and he whipped the left foot back to the ground and lashed out with the right—Flood wasn’t there.

I looked over at Max—the Cobra was quicker than I thought he’d be, and he was fighting her correctly. An amateur would try and use his greater upper-body strength against a woman, but his longer legs gave him more power with less risk. Someone had trained him well—his concentration on Flood was total. Max and I weren’t in the room for him anymore.

Flood still hadn’t moved. The Cobra faked a chop with his left hand, spun into a tightly controlled back-kick, and used the forward momentum to fire three quick chopping strikes in one burst. The first two missed—Flood took the last one on her elbow, spun into it, and twisted her hips to launch an elbow at his exposed face. The Cobra leaned back, his lips parting as her arm shot by, but Flood kept spinning, aiming an eye-dart that just missed, raking the side of his face. First blood. The Cobra rolled to the floor and lashed up at her ankles with his heel, supporting himself with his palms.

Flood shot past the Cobra’s leg and exploded into the air, dropping down toward his face with one leg punching out like a piston.

The Cobra, true to his name, slithered sideways on the hardwood and aimed a powerful chop just as Flood’s foot flashed past him. She took it on the outside of her thigh, grunted, hit the floor with one leg and lashed back at him with the other. She caught him square in the ribs, but he was off his feet when it landed. He flew backward, hit the floor, and spun back up—his hands had never touched the deck.

Flood stepped back, circling her face with her hands, weaving a tapestry of death from the air. The Cobra’s mouth was bloody where he had bitten into his lip. He feinted to his left, pivoted on his right foot, firing another kick in Flood’s direction—but she hadn’t moved. Her back was to the door—all the fakes in the world wouldn’t get him through the opening.

He advanced on her with an extended left hand, thrusting it in and out, circling to his left, not letting her get set to kick. He knew where the danger was—her feet, not her hands. He switched hands in a blur, his right fist shooting forward. Flood threw up her forearm in a block but it wasn’t clean—there was a sharp crack and her arm dropped down for a split-second as she spun away.

He knew what he had to do now. He moved in again, hands out. Flood kicked at his midsection but he was ready—twisting with the force of her kick, he brought his hand out and around in a full spin and caught her just below the eye. It looked like an open-handed slap—Flood’s head snapped back with the blow, but she instantly blasted him full in the chest when he tried to follow up. He staggered back, losing his balance, and she was on him, blood streaming from under her eye. But the staggering was a fake—the Cobra caught her coming in and landed a three-finger dart to the same spot—his hand came away bloody. Flood hissed, hooking clawed fingers at his face with both hands, but he was already backing away, breathing smoothly.

The Cobra was dancing now—up on his toes, shaking his wrists to get full circulation, relaxed. Flood stood as though rooted to the hardwood, one side of her face covered with blood. One eye was closed, but the other was clear and cold. I glanced over at Max—his face was composed but the cords of his neck stood out like high-tension wires, and his forearms were knotted steel. He was looking only at Flood. I knew what he was thinking—she’d never quit. Flood was wedded to the Cobra until death did them part.

I silently screamed at her: “Flood, he’ll never leave this room alive no matter what. You don’t have to die too . . .” But I knew it was useless—there was nothing in her mind but the Cobra’s blood on Flower’s grave.

He came in behind a cat-stance, offering only a snake’s shadow for a target. He fired an exploratory left leg but Flood stood dead-still. He spun in a full circle, driving the edge of his hand across his body right to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

Flood hit the floor as though driven by the Cobra’s strike, but she was moving just ahead of his hand—she hit the floor with one palm and her own leg lashed out, the toe shooting toward his kneecap. I heard the crack before I saw him crumple and go down on one leg, the other twisted behind him—useless now. He clawed at her pants to bring her to him but she spun away and swirled to face him head-on—a blonde ghost—too quick for a Cobra to catch.

Now it was the Cobra who was rooted to the ground, but his fangs still worked. Flood danced in, stepped past his hand-strike, and caught the side of his head with a spinning kick. His neck twisted with the kick, but he brought his hand around again just quickly enough to block her next shot. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heart—and the Cobra’s raspy mouth-breathing.

Flood moved back over to him, set herself, rocked back on her right foot, and the left fired kick after kick—a heel to the side of the head, a toe to the neck, her powerful leg flashing inside the silk pants. He blocked some—but not enough. Flood was a graceful surgeon, cutting away flesh and bone to get to a tumor.

Then she stepped right into his grasping fingers, looking down as he clawed up toward her groin—and kicked the other arm at the elbow joint. Another crack and he was down, face to the floor.

She turned her back to him and went to her altar. She bowed deeply, reaching into the red silk folded on the little table. And when she turned again, the long metal spike was in one hand.

As she approached the Cobra her body flowed into a crouch. She leaned forward, reaching out with her left hand, the spike held next to her hip on the right. The Cobra looked up at her, brought his hand out from under his body and held it out palm up. In surrender.

Flood rocked back on her heels, a puzzled look on her face. And the Cobra struck. Scrabbling like a super-speed crab, he pushed himself off the floor with his one good leg and fired both hands at her throat.

Time stopped. I was watching the whole thing as if the room were full of crystal-clear Jello—everything in slow motion. His body was flat to the ground, his spine arched backward, his hands just about at her face when she brought her right hand around her hip and up into his exposed throat. Up on her toes now, but still in her crouch—the force of her strike lifted his upper body off the ground, where she held him, suspended, with her one hand.

Time froze them like that until her thighs flexed and she slowly straightened up—the Cobra, his throat still connected to her right hand by the spike, slowly rose with her. It seemed forever until Flood’s right arm shot forward, pulling the Cobra up like a rag doll, then flipping him straight back. His head hit the hardwood, and he was flat on his back—the handle of the spike sticking out of his throat.

I looked down at what was left of Martin Howard Wilson—his face contorted, locked forever into his last thoughts. The spike must have gone right through the throat and into his brain. The snake would never crawl again.

Flood was out of gas. I started to move to her before she fell, but Max quickly stepped forward, shaking his head no at me—she had to finish this herself. Max bowed his head and so did I—looking down at the dead Cobra—but not out of respect. I could see the muscles tremble slightly in Flood’s thighs, in spasm from the strain. One arm hung loosely, probably broken. Her expression: half-warrior who had survived a battle to the death, half-schoolgirl who had just gotten her heart’s ultimate desire.

Time passed. Flood’s breathing smoothed and her legs stopped trembling. She worked her head from side to side, ignoring the blood flowing down one cheek, then held out her hands and Max and I came to her and each took one.

We turned and walked to the altar. Flood knelt, took the Cobra’s mug shot, and I fired up a wooden match and handed it to her. She held the burning photograph in her hands, ignoring the fire as she had so many years ago in that room with Sadie. Only when the picture turned to paper ash did she rub her hands together. She wiped her hands on the red silk, wrapped the picture of Sadie and Flower inside its folds, and put it in her robe. She knelt again, said something in Japanese, I think. When she got to her feet her face was a bloody, discolored mess and her hands were burned—but the tears in her eyes were pure joy.

She bowed deeply to Max, spreading her hands as wide as they could go to show him the depth of her gratitude. Then she reached to her waist and pulled the bloody black jersey over her head. Standing naked from the waist up, she threw the jersey at the Cobra’s body, then took Max’s robe from her altar and handed it back to him. Max held his hands up, palms out—he spun his hands in a circle, refusing the return of his robes, telling her to put them on. Flood bowed again and wrapped herself in the robes. She searched through her duffel bag, found her own rose-colored silks, bowed to Max, held them open. Max took the robes with one hand, touched his heart with the other. They didn’t need words—he would no more wear her robes to dispose of the Cobra’s body than she would wear his to fight him.

Flood looked around the temple once more—taking it all in, memorizing it for life. Max clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against them. It was time for Flood to rest. She nodded and flowed into the lotus position on the temple floor, Max’s robes draped around her shoulders, pulling everything inside her.

Max and I left her there while we went to throw out the garbage.