His left hand was empty – the other knife was still in the slab, high up – so he took the downed man's weapon. Now he had two blades against the other fighter's one, and whether that was sporting he no longer cared, as he fell on the guy with criss-crossing attacks chained seamlessly, leaving no openings as he cut the right arm open, then sliced the face.
For a moment, the guy staggered back and looked about to quit; then he swung toward Josh Oh, for God's sake.
– who stamped down hard enough to shatter the instep, smacked a headbutt into the guy's face, then whipped him over in a good old-fashioned hip-throw, because he could.
The double downward stab was unnecessary. He did it anyway.
Then a muscular man, one of the Blades whose name Josh actually knew – Foster, known as Mad Mick and one of Fireman Carlsen's proteges – stepped in front of him, and brought matters back to a formal footing, as though this were still a normal Knifefighter Challenge, and the Knife Edge finale.
"I issue challenge."
Josh really did not want to face this one.
"Accepted."
Everyone else fell back because they knew Foster's reputation, and his other name was Wall of Death because the air around him came alive with danger, every limb a weapon, not just the blade. At least one fighter had gone down when Mad Mick bit in hard, tore away a chunk of the guy's carotid artery, then spat it out and grinned.
In that case, the medics had kept the loser alive. They might not try as hard to save an unknown renegade who had gatecrashed the party.
Josh zigged and zagged, attacks that he dared not push to completion, setting up a rhythm only to break it, and then he was charging from the outside, almost behind his opponent; but Mad Mick was fast, a hooking cut and a massive kick knocking Josh back. His chest felt caved-in as he rolled, then straightened, feeling vulnerable as Mad Mick charged in with a crushing attack.
There was a semi-pro nearby, purely a bystander, but Josh twisted and lashed out, cutting deep, pushing the whimpering guy into Mad Mick's path. A long punch travelled over the guy and rammed Josh's head back, green spots fluorescing in his vision. But his cut had hit target, the injured fighter spurting arterial blood, and as Mad Mick stepped into a scarlet puddle his balance wavered, which was all Josh needed.
He stabbed high, kicked low, half-parried a burning thrust along his ribs, cupped blood in his left hand and scooped it into Mad Mick's eyes, because if ever there was a fair fight, this wasn't it. He punched hard, and again; then Mad Mick was on hands and knees, so Josh dodged past him and continued his advance.
Must keep going.
Then the melee fell upon him.
His limbs were a blur and so were theirs, the attackers, their number unknown, while time slowed down in the paradox of violence, his body flowing – a double slap, left-right against a weapon arm, a backhand slice across the cheek, a stab-and-throw designed to tangle two men together – and for a while he had no weapons save his own body but everything was useful, his chest a pivot point as he hooked a leg with his own, ducked and pushed, came up inside someone's arms, close enough to smell sick-laden breath, hooked his thumbs up along the nose and ripped outwards. For a moment his opponent's scream stopped everything as Josh flung his arms wide, an eyeball spattering to either side.
They fell on him again, but he had a knife once more – there, a liver shot, and the man folded, unable to drop because of the fighters pushing from behind – and now Josh was double-bladed again, and the thing that happened next was strange.
Awash with blood, he laughed.
Again they closed but there was a difference now, a hesitation, and he hook-blocked with a blade while ramming his knee into a thigh, then groin, a downward elbow to the back of the neck, slicing backhand to spin away through a group of three men, the others falling back, and he kicked long to break another knee, cut the falling man's face, piled onward, momentum carrying him through the last few fighters, and then he realised: he had fought his way through, from one end of the promenade to the other.
"Three seconds," sounded in his ear.
Two fighters approached and suddenly tiredness clawed at his arms, but he would not give in to it as he flung himself forward and down, using the last-ditch technique that fighters consider a circus trick and impractical, save for the Russian Spetsnaz special forces who developed their own way for the battlefield, and that was what he used now.
Focus. There is only the…
On one knee, he threw the knives…target.
– and they spun through the air to strike home with meaty thunks in the same moment the lights went out.
Phase four was the waiting.
Below water, he lay in coolness, staring up at the kaleidoscope of light rippling across the surface, hiding him from the world. The darkness had lasted only seconds, long enough for him to roll over the edge and slip down into the water. At the bottom, he had felt for and found the tiny breathing cylinder, the device he had tossed in earlier.
Breathe.
It was about remaining calm.
Control.
From the world above, the music was an attenuated, eerie thump, while the fighters and webcast crew regrouped, commentators talking with excitement about what had occurred, and the renegade who had disappeared. It would take time for them to finish up the preliminaries, and proceed to the bouts in the inner arena, with the final four fighters from each team, along with the two iconic pros, Carlsen and McGee, while all around them the dignitaries sat at their plush tables, flushed with champagne and the sick excitement of watching others face what they themselves could not.
For some twenty minutes, until Tony gave the signal, he would remain here, submerged, hidden by the surface reflections.
Breathe.
And then the signal.
"Phase five. Go now."
He rose through the water, flowed up over the brickwork edge into a crouch on the edge of the promenade. Before him, starting some twenty feet high, a wide strip of red carpet marked the way to the indoors auditorium. There were civilians standing with the semi-pros, whose part was over. None looked in Josh's direction, not at first.
Heads began to turn as he advanced, dripping.
The fabric of his clothes was water-repellent, living up to its name as it shed liquid, so he felt light rather than sodden, with a new mental clarity, as if a wide space had opened up behind his eyes. People stared, and then drew back, as he walked along the carpet strip.
Four guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the entranceway, facing him. They had the bulk of powerlifters, the stare of snipers, and each hip bulged with a holstered firearm. These were the real deal, a barrier of determination.
"Down on your knees," one of them said. "And put your hands on your-"
Josh ripped his shirt open, tore his gun free, and fired eight times.
Always bring a gun to a knife-fight.
It was an old dictum, sort of a joke, and he remembered it as he blasted across the row of thighs, shooting the legs, to wound and because they looked to be wearing body armour. The rounds contained neurotoxins designed to incapacitate, not kill; and the men were lying stunned, mouths working, when Josh jumped over them and stalked through the entrance.
Phase five complete.
Showtime.
Raised platforms stood like plateaus above a forest, in the brilliance of spotlights rather than the sun, while below were not treetops but linen-covered tables and the smart coiffures of guests, while the river-like glitter came from polished silverware. At the far end, atop a yellow dais, stood the two team coaches, Fireman Carlsen and Ice Pick McGee, who would face off when the remaining pairs of fighters had finished. To one side of them, in plush red throne-like seats, Zebediah and Zak Tyndall flanked the prime minister, Billy Church.