Danny had fought many opponents with a much higher skill level than this rabble but the sheer number and enclosed area proved a difficult barrier to overcome.
His left arm felt like it was broken. Slivers of raw pain lanced through his bone as each new strike from a baton compounded the hurt already administered. Stooping under the onslaught, he rammed his stiffened palm hard under a chin, driving the man's head back at an unnatural angle. The man toppled to the ground and clutched at his face. If Danny could have hit him with a clean shot he would have sent him into the afterlife.
Another baton slashed across his forehead and split the skin just below his hairline. The blood that spattered over Danny's face added fuel to the fire that was his mounting rage. The last thing he needed was another scar. Ignoring the pain, he pulled the nearest man in close, wrapping his arm tight around the back of his neck. The man's face was squashed against Danny's chest. Then McMurdo snapped his upper body forward. The resulting crack told of vertebrae being broken, separated beyond repair. As the man fell dying to the ground, he emitted one gurgling cry for help.
The baton wielding gang paused in their attack and stared down at the body of their dead friend. A look of shock, panic and fear rippled through them like a hypnotic suggestion. This was a game changer. Snap had said this was going to be an easy mark. Kick the old duffer into the ground then have some real fun with him later. One of the men who had followed Danny from the bar looked over his shoulder at Snap, and while pointing to his dead friend said merely; “Fuck!”
When the gang looked back at McMurdo he too was brandishing two telescopic batons. Three fallen men, two weapons taken. McMurdo knew his ancestors carried Norse blood in their veins and he felt that ancient Viking fury flow strong.
The blood that now covered his face added to the savage impact of his snarling voice. “I hope you fucker's all have life insurance or your mothers are going to be really pissed off when they have to bury you out of their own pockets.”
The gang shifted, hopping back and forward, uncertain what to do next.
Spitting a mouthful of blood aside McMurdo challenged, “Come on then. You've had the starter, let's get on with the main course.”
Snap responded to his taunts. “Forget trying to take him down. Just smash his fucking face in!”
But the gang didn't have to attack. McMurdo attacked them. With a deep guttural howl that would have befitted a Viking berserker he tore into them. Slashing left and right as he came. Whereas the gang had rained down repeated blows predominantly from above, Danny struck from all angles. Years earlier he had learned the basics of Escrima, the vicious style of stick fighting that originated in the Philippines. He now used one of the most basic but effective sequences from that system. The 'heaven six' combination broke the fingers and wrists of two of the closest men. As soon as they dropped their weapons, Danny closed on them and broke one man's jaw with a horizontal slash and sent the other tumbling to the ground clutching his ruined eye socket.
After blocking another man's attempted strike, Danny planted a boot deep into his testicles. The man howled and buckled at the knees. He then received the butt of a baton on the bridge of his nose. Another man down.
Danny took another smack in the head, which sent spots of purple light dancing across his eyes. With his left arm extended in a guard, he wiped the blood from his eyes. After running his tongue across his teeth, Danny spat out another mouthful of blood-tinged saliva.
He looked at the remaining gang. The first man was back up but holding his spine and wearing a mask of hurt. The fucker with the handcuffs and tape was looking very skittish next to Snap. The big ginger gimp was still there with his Bowie knife.
Danny pointed to the guy with the bruised kidneys. “You! Fuck off home while you still can.”
The man looked at McMurdo and Snap in an alternating pattern, trying to decide who would do him the most damage if he crossed them. He moved to stand alongside his man Snap.
Without warning Danny launched one of the ASP batons through the air in an overhand throw. Handcuff boy, whose attention had been successfully misdirected to his friend caught the steel truncheon full in the face. He was bowled over and gave only a strangled Awk! as he fell.
“Well now, this is more like it. Just one on one. You and me, Snap. Your chance to even the score. No more interruptions.”
Snap glowered at his blood soaked enemy. “There's still two of us. And I've got this.”
Danny shook his head sadly. “I beg to differ. I can smell the crap in his pants from here. He's a waste of time. He's finished.”
Snap looked at the now terrified looking man beside him and grudgingly agreed with McMurdo's summary. “Fuck off Zebo. I'll sort you out later.”
The man called Zebo hobbled back up the car park ramp still holding his back and kept on going into the night.
Snap growled and stepped closer to his target. Sure, this guy was no push over but a foot long Bowie was a way better weapon than some poxy nightstick.
Danny looked over Snap's shoulder and smiled. “It's about time you got here.”
Snap half turned, blade leading the way.
Then some thing happened that he wasn't ready for. Danny launched the second baton through the air. The length of steel caught Snap full in the face. As he reeled back in shock the wiry fucker was on him.
Danny levered the knife down and away from his body, twisting Snap's wrist to breaking point. He then used his forward momentum to deliver a snappy headbutt full into the ginger one's face. As Snap faltered, he took a knee between the legs. As the big man tottered backwards he watched Danny now hold up the Bowie like a trophy.
McMurdo turned slightly and addressed the fallen men around him. “Any of you fuckers move and I'll turn you into pie filling.”
No one put it to the test. A dark stain spread across the front of handcuff boy’s trousers.
“Is this over?” asked McMurdo.
Snap struggled back to his feet, his face contorted into a mask of unadulterated hatred. Blood poured from his broken nose. “You're fucking dead. My uncle is connected. Every headhunter in the country is going to be after you now.”
“It doesn't have to be that way,” growled the bloodstained Scotsman. “We can call it quits.”
But Snap continued. “I'll find out where you live. I'll come and rape your wife one night when you're least expecting…”
Danny slipped the blade into Snap's heart in one smooth thrust. No muss, no fuss. His hand just snapped out like a serpents tongue. Danny McMurdo had no wife to protect but he knew that bull terriers like Snap would keep coming back until one of them was dead. No sense in delaying the inevitable.
Danny looked around at the bodies that littered the ramp. Shit, better leave town for a while, let things quieten down again. He felt no sorrow or remorse for the fallen men. The fate they had intended for him had been nothing short of murder. He pulled the flat cap low on his head to help staunch the seeping wound. He pressed his injured arm between two of the buttons of his jacket to act as a sling.
He gave one last look at the bodies. Just like a kiddie's seesaw, one minute you're up, the next you're down. He knew that one day his would be the body on the ground.
But not today.
Not today.
BIO:
James Oliver Hilton lives in the rugged but beautiful North of England with his wife Wendy. He has been putting pen to paper (Yeah, we did it like that before we all had computers)since before his teens. He loves to write action, horror and the odd piece that spans genres without a care. Alongside his more famous brother Matt Hilton (author of the Joe Hunter Thrillers), he trained in the martial arts since the age of 11, first in the strict routines of Shotokan Karate then later in the very effective combat style of Kempo Ju-jitsu. He is currently ranked as a 4th Dan Blackbelt although he hasn't actively taught any classes for a few years now. His literary influences are varied across genres but enduring favourites include; F Paul Wilson, Matt Hilton, Robert Crais, HG Wells, R E Howard, Steven King, Lee Child, Brian Lumley, Preston Child, S E Hinton, David Icke, Steve Alten, H P Lovecraft, Joseph Wambaugh and Dean Koontz. His passions include visiting Florida and the Caribbean, reading horror and action thrillers, and writing-of course. He loves martial arts in all of their variations, both eastern & world arts.