David Robbins - Memphis Run

“Are you in a hurry to die?” Rikki inquired, looking up.

“I have failed Aloysius, just as I failed my king in Sparta,” Thayer said.

“My disgrace has been doubly compounded. Finish me and end my misery.”

“I will not shoot you in cold blood.”

“And I will not allow you to pass me alive,” Thayer declared.

Rikki peered at the Spartan for several seconds, gazed at his katana, then glanced at the pistol in his right hand. He deposited the pistol alongside the katana.

Thayer’s mouth slackened. “What—?”

Straightening, Rikki adopted the cat stance.

Profound amazement rippled across the Spartan’s visage. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Whenever you are ready,” Rikki said.

The general’s brow knit in confusion. “Why?” he asked plaintively.

Rikki’s belated response was laconic, yet eloquently precise. “Because we are who we are.”

Thayer nodded slowly, then dropped into the horse stance. “I should warn you. Spartans are taught martial combat before they are weaned.”

“Really?” Rikki responded with a grin. “Warriors are instructed in the martial arts in the womb. We save time that way.”

A hearty laugh burst from the Spartan’s lips. He raised his hands and slid forward. “I shall regret slaying you, and I’ve never regretted killing anyone before.”

“Now who is putting the cart before the horse?”

Thayer closed cautiously, and when he was within a yard of the Warrior he unleashed a flurry of hand and foot strikes, any one of which would have incapacitated an ordinary adversary.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was not ordinary. He blocked and adroitly countered every blow, holding his ground, his stoic expression inscrutable, displaying his supreme mastery of diverse forms and styles. Karate. Kung Fu. Aikido. Judo. Jujitsu. He never gave an inch, withstanding the Spartan’s onslaught as immovably as a firmly rooted tree would resist a raging storm.

Sweat was beading Thayer’s brow when he unexpectedly stepped back and smiled. “This won’t be as easy as I thought.”

Rikki slid forward in a low stance, his hands and arms resembling cranes poised to smite a fish.

General Thayer inched to the rear, maintaining a defensive posture, his eyes narrowing.

To disconcert his opponent, Rikki shifted from the crane to the tiger form, from the tiger to the dragon, and from the dragon to the snake, each movement fluid and balletic. He was two feet from his taller foe, waiting for an opening to present itself. As he glided his right foot closer to the Spartan, Thayer committed a blunder.

The general attempted to snap-kick the Warrior’s right knee.

Rikki easily moved his right leg to the left, and as Thayer’s boot cleaved the air, he struck, aiming a leopard-paw blow at the officer’s midsection.

Thayer deflected Rikki’s arm with an outside circling block, then drove his right fist at the Warrior’s solar plexus. Rikki’s right arm flashed in a cutting forearm block, his feet shifting to the right as he performed a horizontal elbow strike to Thayer’s chest.

Staggered by the jarring pain, Thayer inadvertently stumbled backwards, then recovered promptly.

Rikki came again.

Thayer, resolved to stand firm, met the Warrior head-on.

Minutes elapsed.

The corridor was filled with the muted smacks, cuffs, and thumps of their rain of blows. Their shadows seemed to be entwined in a macabre dance on the walls. Hands and feet clashed, countered, and clashed again.

The progress of their combat drew them farther and farther from the cell, until they were within three yards of the stairs once more.

Rikki sustained two agonizing hits, one to the left side of his neck, the other to his right leg below the knee.

Hoping to put an end to the conflict, and annoyed at himself for not killing the Warrior sooner, Thayer became less careful as he pressed the Warrior. He glowered as he fought, his ferocity mounting.

Rikki counterstruck every blow, operating on sheer instinct, his arms and legs functioning in an automatic, conditioned reflex, the result of years spent honing his skills in practice and in battle. During the course of their savage exchange, he landed four blows to the Spartan’s nerve centers and vital points, yet Thayer managed to shrug off every one and continue fighting. They appeared to be evenly matched, and the outcome was in definite doubt. Rikki slowed slightly, hoping to convey the misimpression he was tiring.

Thayer took the bait. Sensing victory, he slashed his right hand at the Warrior’s neck, but had to settle for a glancing blow off Rikki’s collarbone as the wiry martial artist leaned back.

At that moment, as the officer’s right arm was extended to the side.

Rikki knifed his right hand up and in. his fingers rigid as steel, into Thayer’s ribs. The Spartan gasped and tried to escape to the rear, but Rikki was on him with the speed of a swooping eagle. The Warrior’s right hand arced into Thayer’s cardiac notch, the area below the left breast, sinking in to the knuckles.

General Thayer grunted and stiffened. He tottered backwards, his features contorted in overwhelming torment. With an effort, he focused on the Warrior, and his look of anguish was replaced by shocked consternation. Shaking his head, his lips moving noiselessly, he sank to his knees.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi draped his arms at his sides and bowed. A frown curled his mouth as he straightened, and he inhaled deeply before speaking. “You were one of the best I’ve encountered.”

Thayer appeared to be on the verge of tears. He nodded once, then croaked four words. “Tell the Spartans I…”

Rikki saw the life flicker from the officers eyes, and he watched in silence as Thayer sank to the tile. For over a minute he stared at Thayer’s face, and his voice was uncharacteristically choked with emotion when he finally responded. “I will tell them,” he promised.

Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs.

Rikki spun and retraced his steps to the cell. He leaned over and reclaimed his katana, then turned.

A sole Hound was descending the last few steps, his startled gaze on the general’s body. He was armed with a pistol in a flapped holster on his right hip, and he reached for the gun as he saw the small man in black rushing toward him.

“You killed them—” the Hound blurted out.

Rikki was on the man as the pistol was being leveled. His katana whipped in a glistening swing, the razor edge cleaving the Hound’s wrist before the trigger finger could tighten on the trigger. The private opened his mouth to scream, but the best he could do was gurgle as the katana slit his throat from ear to ear. Blood spurted everywhere. The Hound reeled toward the stairs, collapsing after two paces. Rikki walked past him, beginning to climb the steps. He looked back once at the Hound’s stupefied visage.

“Never belabor the obvious.”

Chastity lost her grip on Hickok’s hand and fell on her buttocks.

“Daddy!” she cried.

Nose Ring and his companions laughed as they brushed past the gunman, but they only took one step before his enraged voice stopped them in their tracks.

“That’s far enough!”

The hardcases turned slowly, confident in themselves, smirking. All four wore handguns. All four radiated a palpable air of menace.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Hickok demanded, his hands hovering next to his Pythons.

“What’s it to you?” Nose Ring replied contemptuously. He saw a woman with an automatic rifle come around and pick up the blonde girl.

Hickok glanced at Chastity and Bonnie, then, incredibly, hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and grinned. “What a wit. You must be the brains in your family.”