Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Catcalls from the crowd on the rim above, whoops and hollers. The shadow warrior dodged a hurled beer can with a slight turn of his head, not even acknowledging the missile. Gravenholtz closed in, agile himself, more agile than Moseby had suspected, slowly cutting the ring in half.

Gravenholtz threw a punch. The shadow warrior countered, hit him with a solid right just under the heart. Should have shattered Gravenholtz’s floating ribs and disabled him, but the redhead just moved in, smiling. A flurry of punches from Gravenholtz. The shadow warrior barely dodged, countered again with a right and a left to no effect. Gravenholtz backed him into a cul-de-sac, but the shadow warrior scampered away. Circled behind him. Launched a roundhouse kick that caught Gravenholtz on the side of the head, sent him sprawling. The shadow warrior rushed in to finish the job, but the redhead was too quick, tripped him, punched him as the shadow warrior scooted away. It was a glancing blow, but the shadow warrior grunted in pain, bit his lips shut.

The crowd whistled. Stamped their feet. One of Gravenholtz’s Raiders, a scrawny killer with a broken nose, danced a jig on the rim of the amphitheater, bared his ass to the shadow warrior to a chorus of laughter.

The shadow warrior clutched his side where he had been hit, breathing hard. He moved slightly slower now, and Moseby could see bumps on his rib cage and collarbone where bones had been broken and healed unevenly. Moseby wondered how long the man had been imprisoned here. How many bouts he had fought against the redhead, because clearly they had faced each other before.

Gravenholtz advanced, moving lightly on his feet. His left ear was bleeding from the shadow warrior’s kick, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

The shadow warrior weaved in the torchlight, made a move that was distinctly Fedayeen-a shoulder feint that was in fact a genuine killing attack, “faking the feint,” it was called. Fools the skilled opponent, and the unskilled is dead already, that’s what their instructor had taught them. Not tonight. Gravenholtz caught the shadow warrior with an uppercut that sprayed teeth on the rocks.

The shadow warrior backed away, spitting blood. He pressed himself against one wall, seemingly exhausted, only to dodge away at the last moment as Gravenholtz swung again. Gravenholtz’s fist hit the wall hard, and he whirled around, cursing. It didn’t make sense, but Moseby thought it looked like the rock face had cracked under the blow.

The shadow warrior moved in, jerked back, then sweep-kicked Gravenholtz off his feet. He tromped the redhead’s ankle, then turned and scrambled up the sheer rock face, faster and faster, pulling himself higher with fingertips and toes, blood running down his chin. It was an amazing feat, even for a shadow warrior, and the crowd fell silent for a minute, then commenced jeering, expecting him to fall at any moment.

The shadow warrior didn’t fall, but redoubled his efforts while Gravenholtz raged below, beating on the rock walls. As he reached the top of the slope, the Raider with the broken nose pumped the butt of his rifle at the shadow warrior’s head. Missed. Missed. Missed. Holding on to an outcropping of rock with one hand, the shadow warrior grabbed the rifle away with the other-he shot the Raider twice in the chest before losing his grip and tumbling back down the ravine. He lay still, one leg twisted under him.

Beer bottles shattered around the shadow warrior, the men on top screaming for the redhead to tear his head off.

Gravenholtz snarled the crowd into silence, then limped across the rocks and stood over the crumpled shadow warrior. The wind howled around them, the flames from the torches sending shadows across the redhead’s bare, freckled skin. With his muscled torso and skull tufted with short reddish hair, Gravenholtz looked more like a hyena than a man. He squatted, picked up two of the shadow warrior’s teeth, and shook them in his fist. The clicking sound echoed off the rocks. He grinned as he tossed the teeth, snapped his fingers. “Snake eyes!” He scanned the faces along the rim of the arena.

Moseby tucked in his chin, moved out of Gravenholtz’s line of sight.

Gravenholtz grabbed the shadow warrior by the back of the neck, held him up for all to see. “He’s not dead, don’t worry.” He beamed as the shadow warrior groaned. “See? Fedayeen are hard to kill. We’re going to play with this one for a long time.”

The crowd cheered.

“Give him a week, he’ll be ready again.” Gravenholtz tossed the shadow warrior onto the rocks. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Touched his ear and winced. He kicked the shadow warrior, looked up at the rim. “I’m thirsty. Which one of you peckerwoods wants to buy me a drink?”

The crowd roared.

Moseby joined the throng moving slowly back through the woods, listening to their happy voices, their obscene glee in the fate of the shadow warrior, their delight in the prowess of their redheaded champion. They were right. Moseby had never seen a shadow warrior beaten like that. Not by anyone other than another Fedayeen, and Gravenholtz was no Fedayeen. What was he, though?

Moseby peeled off from the group, shivering now as he remembered his promise to teach the redhead a lesson. The shadow warrior was fast and skillful, deadlier than Moseby had been in his prime, and he was long past that point. Yeah, the shadow warrior was good, but Gravenholtz was better. Clouds slid across the horn of the moon, darkening the night as Moseby made his way back toward the shack. He walked heavier now and there was ice in his guts. He wasn’t tired. Shadow warriors didn’t get tired. That’s what they told themselves anyway. No, Moseby wasn’t tired. He was scared.

Leo squirmed as Rakkim shoved his head through the hole in the painted plywood. His Ident collar caught for a second, making him howl.

“Smile,” said Rakkim, sticking his own head through a hole.

The camera buzzed. The photographer yawned, handed Rakkim two photo buttons as they stepped from behind the plywood.

Rakkim pinned a button on Leo’s chest, pinned the other one on himself. Rakkim and Leo pictured as white-robed angels carrying assault rifles.

Leo wiped his nose. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Could be malaria,” said Rakkim.

“Yes…yes, that’s possible,” said Leo. “Sleeping on the beach…all those mosquitoes. This country is a hellhole of disease and poverty and…” He pressed a hand against his forehead. “I’ve got a fever.”

“Sounds like elephantiasis. Maybe leprosy.”

Leo pursed his lips. You could fool him, but not for long. “How amusing. How droll.”

They pressed their way through the swarm of tourists surrounding the Mount Carmel memorial, the monument to the Branch Davidian martyrs a bigger draw than the nearby Waco rodeo and cow palace. Late afternoon, the air heavy, sweat cutting trails through the dust on their faces in the East Texas heat. The two of them strolled among suburban families wearing DAMN THE ATF T-shirts, and teenagers with David Koresh masks pushed back on their foreheads as they munched fried Snickers bars. Rakkim led Leo toward Stevenson’s Fair Deal Emporium.

All the skin on parade made it hard not to stare: bare arms, bare legs, bare midriffs, short shorts and tube tops and hip-huggers. Hard to tell the harlots from the housewives here. A change since his last visit over three years ago. The Belt was Christian, but evidently the holy rollers had stopped demanding modesty among believers, more concerned with simply maintaining the faith. Let the Muslims fight to the death over doctrine, the Belt needed whatever unity it could maintain.

Rakkim listened to the twangs and drawls, the low, laconic slur of the delta, the rapid-fire urban hustle of Atlanta-layers upon layers, the sights and sounds and smells of a thousand small towns. Young toughs bulled their way through the crowd, eyeing the cutie-pies as they puffed away on foul cheroots. Small black remote-controlled helicopters dipped and soared overhead. A little girl wailed at her snow cone fallen to the pavement as her father dragged her to a stand selling personalized, gold-embossed Bibles.