Discrediting a prime minister on Election Day: it would be a classic op, one for the history books, to be taught to the neos at Hereford, if only it were officially sanctioned and on foreign soil. But here and now, it was a stressed-out, possibly insane ex-soldier – accompanied by his therapist girlfriend, how about that for irony – with a mission to take out a corrupt fascist bastard only because he consorted with those using children's bodies as drug factories; and it could be argued that every country's leader oversaw activities that were equally bad but never saw the light of day – including the leaders that most would consider heroes.
Insane, insane, insane.
At some point in the hours before dawn, he decided he was going through with it. For the remaining short time, he slept.
[THIRTY]
At 4 pm on the twentieth, the preliminaries began. The smartroof polarised to winter dusk, belying the bright heat outside. Blazing scarlet and iridescent blue ran across the membrane-hung arena walls while music pounded, the high notes keening, the bass track deep and visceral as a pounding heart.
On the promenade, women as well as men moved among the faux concrete shards, the fake urban landscape whose graffiti glittered beneath ultraviolet. These people were the extras, bit players in the drama to follow; but for some of them, this evening would be mortal drama, life-changing or life-ending, because they were semi-pros and skilled with blades, most wearing only half armour; and they would skirmish against each other or even against the Blades or Bloods, provided they issued challenge within the rules, at the locations and times when the team fighters were obliged to respond, or face their comrades from their own side.
In this sport, being cut from the team took on a new and literal meaning.
Josh's phone showed near-live views from the separate changing areas for Blades and Bloods, the warm-up routines of the fighters, the priests giving blessings. And then the preliminaries began.
From the window he watched in reality, while casting glances at the five-second-delayed pictures in his phone, as a female Blade stalked into the outer arena – the transformed promenade – and saluted the glittering entrance to the inner arena, the theatre whose imminent production was an affair of sweat and whipping limbs and the sweet slick spurt of blood. Then she yelled out to the female extras.
"Which one of you needs a piece of me?"
There were fists pumped in reply – and some swallowing – but one young woman, lightly armoured, leaped out from the rest, ripping out her knife as she screamed "Challenge accepted!" and then they were into it. Blades flashing, they spun and closed distance, each making good use of the free hand for slapping escrima blocks, nicks on skin marked in red, then the Blade shin-kicked her opponent's inner thigh, slammed right wrist against right wrist, and reverse-hooked her blade point, stabbing shoulder muscle first, then the rubber-protected throat, hitting the carotid artery without penetration.
The challenger dropped. Across the land, pubs would be filled with cheers.
First casualty.
"This is awful," whispered Suzanne.
"I know." He touched her pale milk-chocolate cheek. "It's because we're waiting, not moving."
She shook her head, because there was more to it than that, and they both knew it.
Over the next hour, first Blades and then Bloods ventured among the non-team fighters, issuing or responding to challenges. One of the semi-pros took out two Bloods and a Blade, scoring with accumulated minor cuts. In return, he received a crimson waist sash, while medics escorted him to the Bloods' changing area for patch-up, because he had just gained a place on the team.
But that was a reward for competence more than spectacular fighting. Other combat took place among the rubberised concrete slabs, group confrontations that swirled across the artificial landscape, the fighters squinting against the pulsing red-blue lights, music reaching crescendo at the height of action. Some of the fights bordered on the acrobatic, including one high-jumping fighter who kicked against a slab to reverse direction while airborne, spinning behind his opponent to deliver a downward diagonal slash, scoring full victory.
Then, at 5pm, the first Blade-against-Blood one-onone confrontation began.
Reilly was the Blood's name: a whipcord-thin fighter who in training had shown blinding speed such as Josh had never witnessed. And it wasn't just the explosiveness from static posture; his ability to switch and even reverse directions was unparalleled. He was longlimbed, preferring to dominate from the outside range, edge rather than point, taking out his opponent's arms and legs before closing for the final strike, the unnecessary but dramatic coup to complete his victory.
The Blade was called Richler, heavily muscled and powerful, fast but not tricky, preferring to slam aside his opponent's arms and thrust hard to the body, sometimes smashing his fist into the other guy's face, before hammering back with the hilt, then slamming the point home to win.
At first the fight was Reilly's, as he curved around Richler, keeping the distance, drawing blood from Richler's forearms – but only the outer muscles, not the vulnerable inner flesh. Then Richler powered in "Kick," said Josh.
– and slammed his heel into Reilly's hip, knocking him back and folding him, then Richler's hand thundered down as if with a mace, hilt to skull, and Reilly was already unconscious when Richler kneed him in the face, followed his falling body to ground, and knelt on him while forcing his point under the chin, holding back from ramming it in, because he had already won.
Suzanne wiped a layer of moisture from her face, sweat that ran like tears.
Medics wrapped bandages around the victor's arms, while others carried Reilly away on a stretcher, stumbling fast, rarely a good sign.
Two more Blood-on-Blade fights followed, the first conservative and boring for distant spectators, though probably not for the fighters themselves who risked death right here and now, in the moment. The second was chaotic, a dance of abandon, with a spectacular in the moment. The second was chaotic, a dance of abandon, with a spectacular hamstring cut from a downed fighter who had looked to be beaten, followed by a stab to the Achilles tendon as he rose and performed a blistering hand and blade combination, chaining sequences together propeller-fast, overwhelming his crippled opponent and cutting him down.
The prone man died, blood gushing from a severed femoral artery, before the medics got to him. Josh continued to watch from the window; in the bathroom, Suzanne was throwing up.
At a slower pace, the next confrontation was among the semi-pros, a three-against-four duel, decided on points, the fighters finishing soaked in blood but all from surface wounds, including a slashed face: capillaries and smaller arterioles spilling blood but not at pressure.
Three more one-on-ones, and the last was Bloodagainst-Blade once more.
"Time for us to move," said Josh.
The corridors were deserted, making it easy for Tony to override the surveillance from afar. They went down fast, Josh's chest filled with the hot emptiness that always replaced his heart at moments like this, the void before action; and then they were at the doorway on ground level, ready to go through.
"Clear to go," sounded in his earbead. "And give 'em hell."
He inhaled from his diaphragm, then tightened to exhale as he sank his body weight an inch, centring himself. Then, straight-backed as a samurai, he stepped through.
Three guards turned to look at him, hands reaching for the firearms on their hips.
As they did so, Suzanne slipped from behind him, smiled at the men and spoke a series of confusing words – inaudible to Josh, his ears filling with the surf-like rush of blood that accompanies combat stress – then three pairs of eyelids fluttered, Suzanne passed her fingertips downwards, and three chins tipped forward onto chests.