Without taking a moment to process what had happened to Spike, the big guy let out a mighty roar and charged forwards with his arms out, as if he intended to catch Stone and crush him in a bear hug. He was a large man with substantial muscles, most likely developed through many hours of lifting dumb weights in the gym and topped off with imported steroids. His biceps were bigger than Stone’s thigh and his chest looked as hard as rock. Stone knew what would happen if such a strong adversary were to catch him in a bear hug. Avoidance was not an option this time. With Spike’s unconscious form slumped on the sidewalk, there was insufficient room to maneuver effectively. If he sidestepped the attack and ‘big guy’ got past, then Stone would be trapped between two aggressors and in a tactically disastrous situation. Stone knew he had to meet this attack head-on.
As big guy charged, Stone stepped forwards with his right foot, keeping the knee bent low, and pushing through his locked left leg, drove his right arm forwards into his attackers sternum. The straight line he created, from the rear foot to the striking hand, is called a single line of force; it is the perfect method of transferring energy. If you bend a pencil sideways it is easy to snap it in two, but stand it upright, and slam your hand down onto the point, and you will painfully understand the concept.
For big guy, it felt like he had run into the wrong end of a concrete lightning bolt. A punch to the solar plexus may have winded a smaller attacker, but like Stone, big guy’s stomach muscles were easily capable of absorbing a mighty blow — so Stone aimed for the little bone at the base of the sternum. His heel hand strike, combined with the weight of the charging weight lifter, created an impact of tremendous kinetic energy, short-circuiting the nerve bundle at the center of big guy’s chest. As the strike exploded into the xyphoid process, the little bone at the lower end of the sternum, the seventh intercostal nerve went into shock. Like a man being electrocuted, big guy went into a standing seizure with his arms and legs comically stretched out to his sides. Stone stepped back to create more space, gave big guy a cheeky wink, and delivered a massive kick to his unprotected scrotum. Such a kick would easily have sent a soccer ball out of the stadium; the effect on big guy’s nervous system was devastating. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he dropped to his knees with a sickening ‘smack’ and cross-eyed in agony, he rolled into the gutter where he began to twitch and vomit uncontrollably.
Six seconds had passed.
Perhaps shocked by the speed and efficiency of his compatriots’ demise, the spotty kid at least had the presence of mind to stop and consider the situation. He may even have thought of making the wise choice to turn and run, but after a moment’s hesitation, he too decided to fight. Adopting what he may have perceived to be a martial arts combat stance, he turned slightly sideways with his hands held out like a praying mantis and shuffled forwards to attack. Stone dropped his left foot backwards and raised his left hand to ear height as if he was preparing to deliver a huge punch. It was a simple diversion, like a magician’s sleight of hand, drawing your attention away from the real action; all the time Stone’s right fist was creeping slowly into an attacking position. The spotty kid fell for it. Naturally focusing all of his attention on the threatening left hand, he remained completely oblivious to the real danger — until Stone’s right fist whipped up from a few inches away and connected perfectly with the side of his chin. The kid turned a comical half circle on rubber legs and collapsed into an inert heap onto the sidewalk. The entire combat had taken twelve seconds.
“GRANDDAD my arse!” Stone mumbled.
He glanced left and right to make sure that they were still out of sight behind the dustcart. The only person nearby was the old lady who was crossing to the other side of the road, seemingly oblivious to the battle that had just been fought for her protection. Stone carefully checked each man, to make sure that they were breathing freely and unlikely to choke to death, or spring up and attack him again. Satisfied that they were all temporarily incapacitated, he was about to head back to his car when he had an idea that appealed to his sense of justice. Working quickly, Stone roughly stripped each man from the waist down. Then he dumped their clothes and shoes into the back of the dustcart.
“Payback’s a bitch,” he said as he pushed the big green button to activate the rubbish compactor.
Ten minutes later the dustcart drove away, revealing the huddled forms of three half-naked men, who had lost all interest in throwing rotten fruit at unsuspecting old ladies.
Charles Rathbone drove his Austin Healey Sprite home at a more sedate pace, checking his mirrors frequently. He knew about the observers, he had been aware of them for almost a month. He knew why they were following him, and now he knew what he had to do if he was going to stop them. No one could help him now — although a few had tried. Even his friends, his powerful friends, his good friends were unable to help.
Rathbone had fought a good battle, and for a while he had thought he was winning, but now he knew that he had lost — he knew for sure thirty-six hours ago. A good and trusted friend had shown him the evidence. His friend had been so apologetic. She had explained that the evidence was clear, she said there was nothing he could do, she had cried as she told Charles what would happen next. Then she gave Charles a wonderful gift; she gave Charles a small amount of time. At great risk to herself, his friend promised to delay what had to happen for forty-eight hours, to give Charles time to prepare, time to get his affairs in order — and now that time was almost gone.
It was crucial that the observers did not suspect anything, so Charles made sure that he kept to his usual routine. The little green sports car turned into the driveway of the family farm and pulled into the garage as usual. Charles climbed out of the car, closed the garage doors, and walked back down the driveway to check the post-box before closing the old wooden gates. He could not see the observers, but he was certain that they were close by — probably using binoculars and cameras to monitor and analyze his every move. As he walked confidently towards the beautiful farmhouse, he thought that the thatched roof would probably need attention in the spring, and for a moment, he was saddened that he would miss the fun.
Once inside the house, he carefully locked and bolted the front door. Charles walked swiftly to his study where, using his favourite 18 karat gold Cross fountain pen and personalized writing paper, he hand wrote a short letter. After carefully drying the ink with a blotter, he sealed the letter in an envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Confident that the thick net curtains on the windows would prevent anyone outside from seeing in, he unlocked his gun safe and removed a shotgun and a few shells. This began the critical phase.
Once he had closed and relocked the gun safe, he lay down on the carpet and belly-crawled down the corridor and into the sitting room. He rose slowly and stood absolutely still alongside the window for five full minutes; watching for any movement in the rear yard. When he was confident that there was no one hiding in the bushes, he somberly loaded both barrels of the shotgun.
Inherited from Charles’s father, the Baikal IZH-43KH shotgun was manufactured in Russia, and imported from Canada. Although the shorter 18.5-inch barrel makes it less accurate than a traditional shotgun, Charles considered it an excellent weapon for close quarters fighting. It was also exactly the correct length for what he had in mind. The Remington hypersonic steel shells he was using were specifically designed for shooting fast moving ducks. These unique shells combine a tight pattern of pellets with a 1,700 foot per second mussel velocity, capable of delivering a devastating punch — deadly to both ducks and men.