The Infiltrators (3 page)

But Jason’s powerful legs had enabled
him to sprint after the rascally Cat and douse him with body blows,
something The Cat’s quick head movement did little to mitigate. The
Cat had been carried from the ring looking like a cat that had a
head-on collision with a wagon wheel, and it was at that moment
that Righty’s passion for body blows and explosive leg movement had
been born.

Boxers at the gym laughed as he
sprinted at the bag from eight to ten feet away. But there was one
who didn’t—Coach Ryler.

Here, kid; you wanna build
up your sprintin’ muscles, you better add a little
resistance.

The next thing young Richie knew he had
a rope tied around his waist, and a twenty-pound bag of sand
attached to it. Undeterred, Richie had charged and charged at the
bag, telling his brain there was no weight behind him and that he
had to run faster and faster.

By the time he was starting to earn a
name for himself—in his mid-teens—he was regularly sprinting at the
punching bag dragging a hundred pounds of sand behind him. Once
that rope was untied, and he charged at the bag “naked” (as he
often put it), he sometimes looked like a blur to the other
fighters gaping at him uneasily in the gym, fearing that at any
second they were going to hear Coach Ryler barking that it was
there turn to spar with Righty Rick.

But Righty now found himself thinking
that not even Jason “The Legs” Sevden (as he became known after
laying waste to The Cat) could have so much as laid a finger on
Halder’s head.

It was like one second Halder was
there, and the next he wasn’t. Righty watched beautiful,
technically sound jabs and crosses whistle by Halder’s head, as he
moved just ever so slightly out of the way—so slightly it seemed as
if he wasn’t moving at all, as he appeared to never move one
millimeter more than what safety required.

When his opponents tried their luck
with body shots, he did odd-looking blocks with his forearms. It
looked like what Coach Ryler used to call “Fancy Stuff.” No Fancy
Stuff was ever allowed his gym, but Righty was aware of a few
people at his school who had practiced it. He had gotten into a
fight with one of them, and while to this day he still couldn’t be
sure whether he had perhaps antagonized the classmate into fighting
just so that he could see how much Fancy Stuff was worth in a real
fight, what he did find categorically proven was that Fancy Stuff
didn’t work in a real fight.

The classmate had blocked one punch,
but as soon as Righty began throwing fakes he quickly worked his
way around the classmate’s blocks and hit him wherever he wanted.
Righty had hit him with around ten percent of his normal power,
since the fight was more of an experiment—at least in Righty’s
mind—than an actual fight, but when the classmate had landed a shot
to Righty’s nose that drew blood, Righty responded with a body shot
that cost his adversary a month of school.

Righty had never given Gicksin any
serious thought after that and considered his coach’s summary of it
as Fancy Stuff to be more than adequate.

But here, in this place, at this
moment, if long-since-deceased Coach Ryler had been here with
Righty, they would have shared an intense moment of disbelief.
Halder’s blocks hit his opponent’s arms with enough force to
practically end the fight all by themselves. He could see the brave
fellow wince in pain every time the curious Halder slammed the
blade of his forearms into the incoming arms of his pugilist
opponent.

And even when his opponent threw quick
combinations of punches, Halder delivered his series of blocks with
so much speed and grace it looked like nothing but a series of
blurs emanating from the catlike figure. Coach Riley had always
taught Righty that those fancy blocks were never good except when
going against street thugs who threw wild, looping punches and
explained that against technically sound punches only evasive
movements with the head and feet and covering movements with the
forearms would do any good.

But beyond even these amazing feats
there was something else that caught Righty’s attention, though it
was only a hunch. It seemed evident to him that Halder could at any
point devastate his opponents with a single punch, and yet he only
delivered light punches while putting on this spectacle of
speed.

Next up were the grappling matches.
Once again, Righty had tunnel vision and kept his eyes peeled on
Halder. The opening match practically floored Righty, as Halder’s
aggressive opening was like nothing Righty had ever
seen.

Halder ran up to his opponent, jumped
up into the air, wrapped his legs around his head, brought him to
the ground, and simply stood up and walked away. Had Righty not
seen Halder’s earlier magic, he would have yelled at him to go back
to his opponent and keep fighting or to get the hell off his ranch
and never come back. But, prior magic show still in his mind,
Righty awaited curiously to see what happened.

The man on the ground was motionless.
Tim walked up to him and looked closely and then put his hand under
his nose. He gave a thumbs-up to Righty and then lifted the poor
fellow’s legs up in the air. About fifteen seconds later, like a
man emerging from a deep sleep, he looked around him and struggled
to make sense out of what had just happened.

“You okay?” Tim asked.

The man nodded uneasily, got up, and
walked towards the combatants who had been eliminated, looking
ashamed.

“I’m next,” Righty announced, catching
not only Tim but himself completely off guard, and immediately
wishing he could go back in time and take back those words. But
while he did have a bird the size of several eagles put together
that could fly him a day’s journey in a matter of minutes and a
large army of konulans that could perform the surveillance duties
of ten thousand spies, a time machine he did not have.

“You’re the boss,” Tim said,
shrugging.

Halder looked at him calmly, his gaze
betraying neither arrogance nor fear. Not even curiosity could be
seen. His eyes were impenetrable.

“Even the chef’s got to get into the
kitchen,” he said, immediately questioning whether his attempt at
humor made sense.

Halder smiled lightly.

As they faced off against each other,
Righty found that while he had not lost his apprehension about
facing this enigmatic ranch hand, he had at least lost regret.
Though there was no time for deep analysis, subconsciously he
wondered whether he had been watching some kind of fraud in
progress and felt he had to experience this man’s skills for
himself.

Righty had never considered himself a
natural at wrestling, but his regular sword practice sessions with
Pitkins had included empty-hand techniques for quite some time, and
Righty was slowly making progress at grappling.

He lowered his stance considerably,
which Pitkins had taught him to avoid leg attacks. But after what
he had seen happen to his predecessor Righty wasn’t so sure
Pitkins’ lessons were going to do him much good.

As Halder came towards him and Righty
reached out for him, only to grasp a handful of fresh, empty air,
his mind was unable to even slightly comprehend the dizzying
movements that followed, but his subconscious turned briefly to
tales he had heard as a child about seafaring folks.

It was said that at sea—which took many
months by land to reach, out to the east of Selegania—there was a
creature that would sometimes grab a net full of fish being lifted
and hitch a ride up to the deck. Once there, though slightly
smaller in its torso than a human, it would begin attacking
everyone on the ship with its large number of rope-like legs that
it could flick away from its body rapidly like a whip or lasso
around its prey and drag them towards its bloody mouth.

There were stories of powerful men
attempting to overcome the beast, but in vain they grabbed at its
legs only to find themselves grabbed by its free legs as it wrapped
around and encircled them, rendering them all as helpless as
children against an angry lion.

When Righty had grasped empty air,
Halder had rolled onto the ground in front of him in what looked
like a silly, foolish position, but before he knew it, Halder was
in a different place, his feet acting like hands, grabbing Righty’s
legs wherever they willed, while Halder’s equally dexterous hands
assisted his legs, and the next thing Righty knew the man was out
of sight.

His first clue as to where the magician
had gone came when Righty felt himself being elevated up into the
air. The next clue came when he felt himself falling backwards and
falling right on top of the man.

Before Righty could even momentarily
appreciate the fact that he at least knew where his opponent was he
felt a death grip around his neck, surely worse than that of the
tightest noose.

He was sure he would soon be choked
unconscious or perhaps killed right then and there in front of his
many ranch hands, who looked up to him tremendously. Ignominiously,
he would die at the hands of this demon who had crept out from some
hole Kasani knew where—or perhaps was an assassin sent by some
rival drug organization he had not even heard of. Not even Harold
would have a chance of plummeting from the sky quick enough to
prevent the poisonous serpent with which he had so foolishly chosen
to interact.

But before his mind could
torment him any further he heard a calm whisper into his ear. The
speech was rapid, but Righty caught every word:
I needed to get your attention. We talk in private afterwards.
Now, escape and beat me.

It took more than a second for Righty
to process what he had just been told, and while he had always
reviled faked outcomes, he didn’t feel he was in much of a position
to argue with this man.

Righty quickly began attempting an
escape, something that just seconds before would have seemed the
height of folly. He could hear the man grunting and gasping—perhaps
as a show of effort—but at the same time the death grip had
softened. Righty grabbed the man’s forearm, pulled it down, and
began moving towards the choking arm’s thumb, as Pitkins had taught
him to do from that position.

A long series of reversals followed,
every one of them masterfully acted by Halder, whose grimacing face
suggested he was fighting for his life. Righty had to do little
faking, as even this new version of Halder was leaving him gasping
for air and feeling like he was going to throw up at any second,
due to the tremendous exertion. He tried to perform every counter
he could that Pitkins had taught him, as Halder assailed him with a
flurry of grappling attacks, every one seeming to fail by a
hair.

When the time for the match expired,
Righty surprised Halder by grabbing his arm and lifting it,
announcing him as the victor.

“This man has made it into Ranch Guard.
Tim, I’ve seen some good fighting today. You pick whichever are the
best nine after Halder,” realizing the best nine probably wouldn’t
be able to take Halder at the same time.

“Yes, sir,” Tim said
quickly.

“This way,” Righty said to Halder, and
they began walking towards Righty’s cabin.

Chapter 7

“We almost there, Sonny?”

“Over this way,” Sonny said.

Sonny was a son of a whore, but that
was no epithet. His mother was Rosie Culvendale, and she had worked
both the streets and bordellos of some of Sivingdel’s roughest
areas. When he was born, she named him Chris, but the ubiquitous
sight of the young tike running around the bordello playing with
toys while other kids his age were at home playing with their
siblings became quite a sight.

Who is he?
many would ask.

Oh, the son of some whore .
. . Rosie, I think her name is.

As Chris got old enough to go to school
it didn’t take too long for the little secret to reach the ears of
his classmates, but it wasn’t until middle school that Son of a
Whore practically became his proper name.

Those were sad years. Many lonely
lunches, many black eyes, and many nights full of
brooding.

Chris left school at age twelve,
thinking he could outrun his past. He found odd jobs pickpocketing
and serving as lookout for some of the town’s more nefarious
bandits while they entered businesses and even private homes.
Somehow, the past caught up with him, and though he did good enough
work that most of his bosses wouldn’t say it to his face, he would
hear them chuckling and saying it behind his back.

But the real problem was with his
peers. They said it to his face all day long, but oddly enough, not
always in a mean way. It seemed as if they wanted him to accept
that name and not take it personally.