Jeff Brackett - Half Past Midnight

Megan stood beside me, and we watched as Han stepped forward into the makeshift ring.

“You sure you can take him?”

I looked at the behemoth standing across from me. “No.”

She nodded, taciturn and solemn for the moment. “Do you trust Larry to let Zachary go?”

I laughed. “I don’t trust Larry as far as I could throw him. But when we first ran across Larry’s ambush, back on D-day, he commented on Han’s strict code of honor. And we’ve seen how they’ve argued over the way they treat Zachary. So I’m pretty sure that if I lose, Han will insist that Larry stick to the terms of our agreement. And Han is the only thing holding Larry’s people together.”

Megan nodded. “So if Han wins and Larry tries to go against his word, Han will leave?”

I shrugged. “I’m betting he won’t continue to serve someone that dishonorable.”

She smiled grimly. “And if you kill Han, he’s still the only thing holding Larry’s group together.”

“Yeah. Either way, Larry’s army is finished.” I exhaled slowly, trying to release some of the tension in my shoulders. “You want to wish your old man good luck?”

Megan pursed her lips as if she were trying to figure out what to say. “You know, we’ve been standing here trying to be clinical about what happens if you kill Han, or what happens if Han kills you.” She shook her head. “And I’m trying my best to stay unemotional about it all because I know you don’t need any more pressure right now.”

She stopped as her voice cracked and knuckled away the single tear that fell down her cheek. Then she nodded at where Larry held Zachary. “But that prick over there is responsible in one way or another for killing three people I loved and dozens of my friends. Now we’re standing here talking about what happens if you die, too.” She shook her head again and patted her crossbow absentmindedly. “I’m willing to give your way a chance, but if that doesn’t work I want you to know something.”

She paused a second, then said with complete sincerity, “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

As she said it, I saw a touch of the madness that had overtaken her for a time after Andrew had been killed, and it pained me to finally accept the fact that it would always be a part of her.

I pulled her to me and hugged her close. “If my way doesn’t work,” I whispered, “I won’t be in any position to object. All I ask is that you get your brother home safely first.”

She nodded, and I stepped away, into the clearing with Han. We approached each other warily and stopped about ten feet apart. He surprised me by bowing as if this were a simple sparring match in a dojo. Not knowing what else to do, I bowed in return. Then, we began to circle one another.

I studied the way he moved, hoping to find some sign of weakness or fault in strategy. The last time I had seen him this close, he had been pounding my abs. Herculean as ever, he had led a hard life since then, which had only served to enhance his already formidable physique.

Lightning fast, he shot a fist toward my face, and the crowd around us erupted into shouts. I parried, only to find it was a ruse. I barely skipped aside in time to save my knee from a crippling kick. Before his foot touched the ground again, Han leapt and spun backward in the air with a speed that belied his size. The heel of his boot grazed my cheek as I scrambled away.

If that kick had connected, it would have been the end of the fight. From the intensity of the shouting, everyone around us knew it as well.

I shook off the close call and saw Han launch himself once more into the air. Sidestepping, I parried another punch. As he passed this time, I jabbed a stiffened thumb beneath his striking arm, into his armpit. Let’s see how you like being on the receiving end. Now it was my turn to attack before he had a chance to regain his footing. I jumped, kicked.

Han spun backward and countered with a spinning back-fist that knocked me ass over teakettle. I panicked as the world swam before my eyes, and I rolled frantically away. Disoriented, I shifted blindly to cover where I thought Han would be coming from, as I scrambled to get my bearings.

My vision cleared in a second that took forever, just in time to see him coming in with a combination of techniques that turned him into a tornado of striking hands and feet. I barely escaped the flurry, gaining an intensely painful welt on my lower ribs-along with a burgeoning enlightenment.

There were an immeasurable number of fighting schools and philosophies, but most could be broken into combinations of a few categories. Strong or flowing, linear or circular, long range, short range, striking, grappling-all of those characteristics helped an experienced martial artist evaluate his opponent. So far, Han had almost exclusively used long-range, circular techniques.

I tested the hypothesis. Han spun backward once more, throwing the heel of his foot at my head. Instead of stepping back or to the side, I slid inside the technique and countered with an elbow to the back of his head.

On most people, this would have ended things immediately. Han rolled with the strike and came immediately to his feet, the only indication that I had even connected was a slight shake of his head. While I had apparently done little damage, that tiny victory lent credence to my idea and renewed my confidence.

Han attacked again. I needed to find out if he had any close-range techniques in his arsenal. God help me if he does. By getting in close, I would be more vulnerable to the big man’s greater strength. He punched at my face. I raised an elbow to strike his knuckles, then shuffled closer.

He tried to throw another punch, but this was my range, and I stuffed the technique before it could gain any power. Seeing what I was doing, he tried to step back to regain some distance, but I followed and smashed my elbow into his face-once, twice, three times before he staggered backward with a scream of rage and blood streaming from his broken nose.

Eyes widened in pain, the heavyweight still shook it off and attacked again. He was more cautious, more wily. He threw the spinning kick again, but followed with a knee attack, going for the shorter range. But I knew tricks that he simply didn’t have experience with. I raised my own knee, driving it into his inner thigh, and at the same time, elbowed his nose again.

Bellowing in pain, his eyes glazed for a second, and I locked my hands around his neck, drawing him down into my raised knee before he threw me off with another sledgehammer punch to the ribs.

I hissed, feeling the sharp pain of a cracked rib. Gotta end this now, or I won’t last another pass.

Without regard for the pain in my ribs, in fact, almost feeding on it, I jumped at him once more. Again and again, I worked at him, using every opportunity I could get to worry that broken nose. But the pain in my rib began to restrict my breathing, and I found myself rapidly weakening. Simultaneously, each attack on Han’s nose only seemed to drive him into greater fury.

Maddened with the pain I had inflicted on his profusely bleeding nose, he drove forward like a frenzied bull. Gone was the cunning fighting machine. Instead, a man insane with pain and anger pummeled me with clumsy, but incredibly powerful punches.

I blocked and parried, but inevitably he got another one through, connecting with the cracked rib, and I screamed once more, blinking back tears and sweat. I staggered back, threw a blind kick with the toe of my boot and felt it connect with his inner thigh.

He barely slowed, but at least he was limping. He growled and threw another punch. I managed to brush past, trap his wrist, and pull him suddenly toward me. Off balance, he was exposed for the split second I needed to slam an open palm into his left ear, bursting his eardrum.