I looked at him. “I’ll take the money.”
He laughed. “We’ll see. Now pay attention. You’re up first. That gives you fifteen minutes. These guys will stay with you to help you get ready.” He turned and walked away.
I looked up at the two goons. They kept a respectful distance, reducing my chances of making a sudden move and getting past them. Even if I could, though, there were men working the door. Several of them were watching. My chances would be better with Adonis.
I wondered about the number of fights. Multiple payouts would reduce, maybe even eliminate, the house’s take.
I pushed the thought aside and slipped off the navy blazer I was wearing, then my shirt and shoes. I looked over and saw that Adonis was doing the same.
Some vicious thing inside me stirred. I felt it in my gut, the back of my neck, my hands.
I thought of Musashi, the master swordsman, who wrote, You must think of neither victory nor of defeat, but only of cutting and killing your enemy.
I stretched and shadowboxed. I let my focus narrow. It didn’t matter where I was.
Murakami walked over. He said, “Let’s go.”
I moved to the center of the room. Adonis was waiting there.
His pupils were dilated and his hands were shaking. He looked juiced, maybe kakuseizai. Speed would give him a short-term energy boost, help him focus his attention.
I decided to give him something to focus on.
I approached him, not slowing until I was in his face. “How’s your buddy’s ankle?” I asked. “Sounded like it hurt.”
He stared at me. His respiration was rapid. Pupils, black basketballs. Definitely kakuseizai.
“Try that on me,” he said around clenched teeth.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m not going to break your ankle. I’m going to break your knee.” I took a half-step back and pointed. “That one right there.”
The idiot actually let his glance follow my outstretched finger. I tensed to launch an uppercut to his gut, but Washio, wise to such things, had seen it coming and jumped in between us.
“You don’t start until I say start,” he growled, looking at me.
I shrugged. Can’t blame a guy for trying.
“They’ll be taking you out of here in a bag, fucker,” Adonis said. “That’s a promise.”
Washio shoved us apart. The crowd tightened like a noose.
“Are you ready?” Washio asked Adonis, who was bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive boxer.
Adonis nodded, glaring at me.
Washio turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, watching Adonis.
“Hajime!” Washio cried, and a collective shout went up around us.
Adonis immediately feinted with a kick and took a side step back. Then again. We started to move in small, migrating circles.
I saw what he was up to. For him this was effectively a hometown crowd. He would have friends in the audience. The movement of our circles would gradually take us closer to them and give them access to me.
But the presence of those friends would also engage his ego. “Doko ni ikunda?” I taunted him, moving to the center. “Koko da.” Where are you going? I’m right here.
He took a step forward, but not enough to close the distance. My earlier taunts had focused him on his knees. He was afraid I would shoot in on him the way I had on his friend, and thought that keeping his distance would prevent me.
I dropped my arms a few centimeters and kept my head and torso slightly forward. He steadied himself on his feet and I could feel him thinking Kick. His kicks were good, too. I’d seen him practicing. If I were him, I’d try to wear me down from extended range, try to keep me away with those long legs.
He planted his left foot forward and whipped in a right roundhouse kick. His foot smacked into my left thigh, then snapped back to the ground. I felt a bolt of pain and there was a shout of approval from the crowd. Adonis bounced on his toes again.
He was quick. Didn’t give me a chance to grab the leg.
I’d have to let him feel that the kicks were working for him, so he’d try to land them with a little more authority. The extra couple of milliseconds of contact would make the difference.
He snapped the kick out again. It hit my thigh like a baseball bat and shot back to the floor. The crowd shouted again. There was a roaring in my ears.
The impact hurt worse this time. A few more like that and I’d start to lose the full use of the leg. I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I shifted back a half-step and crouched, giving him more of my right side as though to protect my forward leg. I watched him in adrenalized slow-motion.
His nostrils were flaring in and out, his eyes drilling into me. He shuffled forward, his feet staying close to the floor.
In my peripheral vision I was aware of his right foot taking the ground a little more firmly. His weight began to shift to his forward left. His hips cocked for the kick.
I reined in my urge to act, forcing myself to wait the extra half-second I knew I needed.
The kick started to come off the ground and I shot forward, shortening the distance by half. He saw his error and tried to correct, but I was already too close. I jammed the kick with my left hip and swept my left arm out and around his extended right knee.
The crowd breathed, “Ahhh.”
He improvised quickly, encircling my left triceps with his right hand and thrusting his free hand at my face, the fingers forward, going for my eyes. I tightened the grip on his knee and took a drop-step forward with my left leg, levering him down toward the floor. He hopped backward on his left leg to try to recover his balance and I popped a sharp right uppercut into his exposed balls.
He grunted and tried to pull away. I took a long step forward with my right leg, ducking under his left arm and simultaneously releasing his knee. I swept behind him, clasped my hands around his waist, dropped my hips, and arched sharply backward. Adonis arced over me like the last car on a roller coaster, his arms and legs splayed at demented angles. His neck and shoulders took the impact and his legs rocketed over his head to the floor from the momentum the throw had generated.
Had I elected to release my grip around his waist, he would have done a complete somersault. I maintained the grip instead, and his feet flopped back to the floor, putting him on his back. I grabbed his face with my left hand and used it to simultaneously shove his head back and scramble from behind him. I rose up on my right knee, tensed my hips, and smashed down on his exposed throat with my right forearm, getting my weight behind the blow. I felt the crunch of systemic breakage-the thyroid and cricoid cartilage, probably the spinous process, as well. His hands flew to his throat and his body convulsed.
I stood up and stepped away from him. The crowd was now silent.
I saw his neck beginning to swell from a hematoma induced by the fractures. His legs kicked and scrabbled and he rolled from side to side. His face blued and contorted above his frantic fingers. Nobody made any move to help him. Not that they could have. After a few seconds his body started to shudder in odd spasms, as though he was being shocked. A few seconds after that, the shuddering stopped.
Someone cried out, “Yatta!” I won!, and the room reverberated with a chorus of cheers. The crowd converged on me. People slapped my back and grabbed my hands to shake them. I was uncomfortably aware that one of Adonis’s friends might use the moment to try to put a knife in me, but there was nothing I could do.
I heard Washio’s voice: “Hora, sagatte, sagatte. Ikisasete yare!” C’mon now, c’mon now, let him breathe! He and a few of the bouncers moved close to me and started to push the crowd back.
Someone handed me a towel and I wiped my face. The crowd eased away. I looked around and saw stacks of ten-thousand-yen notes changing hands.