Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (14 page)

Mai stepped out, leaving her coat on a bench as she passed. Without even a backwards glance at Hibiki, she approached the clearing. “I am here.”

“Then it is time to settle this matter.” One of the Yakuza leaders moved aside, gesturing at her. “In combat we seek justness. In death, an impartial outcome. Let it begin.”

Mai waited until the Yakuza men departed before approaching the great warrior. His name, they told her, was Aoki and he bore no arrogance, no pretentiousness and no rage. She stood in silence before him and waited for the signal. If everything she was came down to this then it was an ignominious, inglorious end and one quite befitting.

No further thoughts entered her mind in that final moment of contemplation. In absolute silence and total emptiness there was a kind of cleansing.

“Fight.”

Mai sidestepped twice as the powerful figure loosened himself up. The head rocked from side to side, slackening neck muscles. The fingers flexed in anticipation. Aoki locked gazes with her.

And struck. The act had been mere misdirection. Mai deflected his clenched fist with an upraised arm, his rising knee with one of her own. They came together briefly, breath intermingled, before stepping apart once more. Mai tested the ground. The grass and soil beneath was firm, not slippery. The air was thin. The extremities of their battleground were always going to be precarious. The pack of men to her right constituted a point of reference, Hibiki another.

Aoki’s knee rose, but it was his fist that drove at her, glancing off her temple as she ducked aside. Instantly, the Yakuza warrior spun and planted a turning heel into her abdomen. Mai felt the impact and tensed her muscles but still she staggered. Pain exploded around the partially healed bullet wound. The blow was no accident. Incensed at such trickery, Mai ignored the pain and pounced before Aoki had a chance to right himself. Delving her right hand into his ribs she also chopped her left down on the back of his neck. Aoki’s muscles were large enough to absorb both blows but he certainly felt them.

Silver flashed, and two gleaming swords landed on the green grass.

Aoki leapt for the closest. Mai ignored the weapons and again hit the warrior hard. Two blows made him groan—a chest blow and another neck punch. Aoki would already be bruised there. Mai then dived headlong as Aoki swung his entire body, sword extended. The blade barely whistled over her ducking head and even from here she heard Hibiki’s sharp intake of breath. Mai allowed her momentum to become a roll and then revolved to her feet. Aoki came fast, swinging the sword fast like a blade in a Rotavator, scything the air with each deadly stroke.

Mai saw her death approaching. The avenue of evasion was just too narrow. Last ditch efforts came to mind and Mai took up the fastest. Against all of her—and Aoki’s—instincts, she fell to the floor, kicked out and rolled. Her heels slammed into his knees, her momentum took her under the sudden downswing of the blade. Still rolling she knew she just wasn’t fast enough to gain her feet.

The blade was already slashing toward her—the killing stroke. Mai twisted in mid-roll, brought her arm up and caught the blow of Aoki’s sword on the blade of her own. She’d barely had time to snatch it up and the angle wasn’t right—so his blade slid down hers, its progress only halted by the wide hilt. The slip made him lose his balance, his face coming down until it was an inch away. Eyes of hard unfeeling granite met her own. Impossible strength pushed the blade of his sword closer and closer to her face. Her sword was trapped between them. Mai kicked her legs and jack-knifed her body but to no avail. The man was immovable, a boulder, ensnaring both her hands between their bodies and pushing down with every straining sinew.

A collective gasp of victory went up from the assembled Yakuza. But she wasn’t done yet. Mai twisted her shoulders, flung her head back. Aoki rotated with it, and every second brought the edge of his sword closer to her face.

Mai felt the cold touch a moment later. Her body was held immobile, preparing for the inevitable. The razor-edge was cold as it pressed against her, first a mere presence and then a major concern. The first trickle of blood slipped down her face, spilling down her chin and across her throat to soak into the cold grass. From here, Aoki could only get stronger. His muscles bulged. The blade sank a millimeter further. Mai gasped in pain. Blood poured, the gash now over two inches long, the skin parting. If she stopped pushing back he would slice her face clean off. This knowledge as much as anything made her fight harder, channel more strength than she knew she possessed into her arms. If only . . . if only she could twist or curl one more time.

But Aoki was a hardened warrior and knew all her tricks. The only emotion he showed was when he thrust his face even closer, intimidating even her final moments. The blade sank further into her face, more than a gash now, an open, flowing wound, a grievous injury. Blood turned the grass into a deep, crimson mud. Not a sound could be heard. Mai saw the sunset waning to nothing in the skies above and a darkness starting to appear.

The day was over. All the light in the world had diminished, faded forever.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mai suddenly flashed on the best part of her life. It wasn’t now, it wasn’t recently, but it
was
a great portion of the last few years. It was the dumb Yorkshireman and all his eccentricities, his intelligible language and odd foibles. His successes.

His quirks.

And so the only idea wedged inside her head at that moment suddenly offered a slight chance of a way out. He often referred to it as a Yorkshire Kiss. Something about—
it’s been donkey’s years since I last saw a good Yorkshire Kiss.

Mai gathered herself, expecting the pain for her action would force the blade even deeper. But it would be fast and it would be hard. It would be the best Yorkshire Kiss of her entire life. Pushing her skull as far back as the soft soil would allow she met Aoki’s eyes, saw him come another inch forward and then let it all loose. Striking incredibly hard she smashed her forehead into Aoki’s face, aiming directly for the bridge of the nose. The impact was huge. Blood spurted from Mai’s already deep wound but Aoki, experienced warrior or not, reacted as anyone would—his hands flew to his face, blood erupted from the broken nose, and he screamed.

Mai slithered free, but she didn’t escape his clutches, had no intentions of doing so. With blood streaming and flying from her deep laceration she jabbed again and again at Aoki’s eyes and neck and cheekbones. Another bone broke. An eye almost dislodged. More screams came from the warrior.

This was pure down-in-the-dirt survival combat now, no fancy moves, and Mai was as comfortable with it as she was with breathing. Both hands struck directly and hard, fingers and palms. As Aoki rolled Mai went with him, now targeting an eardrum and popping it, now mashing lips and dislocating the jaw. Aoki began to forget his training such was the mounting pain. Mai bled and never gave up. Her blood coated his face, his hair. Two knuckles broke against his cheekbone as they shattered it. Aoki’s elbow flew backward, connecting with her left eye, instantly blackening it and causing an unexpected lance of pain that caused her to scream. She staggered onto hands and knees, momentarily blinded by the agony. She collapsed onto her elbows. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she fought for more. Aoki’s face swam into focus, distorted and broken and bloodied, no doubt a mirror of her own. One huge arm scrabbled for a sword.

Mai went flat as the sword came down, swung almost blindly. The blade passed over her horizontal back, digging into the grass. Mai rolled quickly on top of the flailing warrior.

“No quarter,” she heard from the Yakuza head. “This is our judgment.”

Mai knelt with her knee across Aoki’s throat, pressing down. The sword rose behind her. Its length made impaling impossible but its cutting edge could be brought to bear. Mai bore down with every ounce of strength she had left, watching the fight die from Aoki’s eyes. The sword came closer and then the blade was again at her skin, cutting through her clothes to her shoulder blade. Aoki sawed as if he was carving a turkey joint, strength waning. Mai ignored it all, using every ounce of her old training and focus techniques to compartmentalize both the peril and the pain. Everything would pass and when the end came she would be where she was supposed to be.

Then came the hammer blow. Aoki had been distracting her with the sword, gathering his strength for one final effort. His right fist struck the side of her head like a hammer striking an anvil. Stars exploded and they would for an eternity.
Where did he find such staying power, such incredible will and admirable potency?
The unbeaten devil had tricked her at the final moment.

Mai toppled off Aoki, barely conscious. Her body toppled to the ground, arms flopping. Her eyes closed. Did she breathe?
I no longer care.

Blood pooled all around her. Muscles had seized and an incredible blackness floated into her brain, overwhelming all. Without conscious thought or even the benefit of vision she sent her fingers searching through the grass.

Aoki struggled to his knees at her side. Through experience she knew he was evaluating her. The decision would be quick. Blindly, painfully, optimistically, she clasped the hilt of the discarded sword and brought it around in the instant that she believed Aoki would strike.

Instinct. Nature, inbred at birth. Reflex. A true sixth sense.

Aoki’s lunging body impaled itself on the thick blade. Mai forced it all the way through before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Dai Hibiki’s guttural cheer told her the real truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Drake settled back as Yorgi operated the Jeep, watching the horizons as best he could and hoping Jenny Rathe kept them to the less dusty dirt roads. The Jeep bounced along. His heart was buoyed, expecting Alicia to arrive within the next day or two. Maybe they could even join up with the rest of the SPEAR team. Of course, even as a group they were far from invincible—the young woman seated behind could attest to that—but there was something about having your soldier family with you, something . . . unassailable.

Brown, barren landscape spread out in every direction. Jenny was leading them on a roundabout route to the vicinity of where they had been attacked. Her methods should give them protection, concealment and forewarning. Jenny was old school clever, taught hard by her wilderness-living father even before the government acquired her. The Jeeps would take them so far and then she would be able to track any quarry she liked. Drake was of no mind to completely trust her at this point but so far she seemed to be the real deal, if a little on the quiet side. She appeared to be either quick-tongued or largely discreet. Maybe it was the red hair, or that some people just took a bit more bedding in than others

On a different note, the noise, or complete lack of it, from the back seat was worrying. Drake wished he could stop his surveillance to have a deep and clear conversation with Karin. He wished he’d already done so. What was she leading up to?

The Jeep was equipped with a two-way radio which crackled into life. “I’m calling a halt,” Jenny said. “Time to camp.”

Drake evaluated the terrain. “Are you sure? We have a couple of hours of daylight yet.”

“You wanna drive around half-cocked or with a least a semblance of safety? If it’s the latter pull the fuck up and let me scout.”

Drake blinked.

Yorgi mouthed: “Half-cocked?”

Drake sighed. “It means ‘with your head up your ass’, and she’s right. Stop over there, Yorgi.”

They pulled up behind the lead Jeep, basking for a final few moments in the air conditioned interior. Drake tried to put some comforting words in his mouth, something heartening, but his brain wouldn’t play ball. Whatever words could be said to Karin had already been repeated a hundred times. If Drake was being honest he would have to admit that she was in the wrong place.

Yorgi cracked the door, wincing as the hot desert air rushed inside. Drake followed and watched as Jenny strode toward him.

“Make camp here. Use the vehicles at the perimeter but not too close. Prepare a campfire and some food. I’ll be starving my ass off by the time I get back.”

“Where the hell are you going?” Smyth hefted a rifle. “Tijuana?”

The redhead threw him an irritated look. “You think you can do better, soldier boy? Be my guest. Just don’t fall into the quicksand or get eaten by sandworms.”

Smyth was setting himself to square up to the guide when Lauren laid an arm across his shoulders.

“Just let her do her job. Yes?”

“Whatever.”

Drake nodded at Jenny and set tasks. The sun’s orb was already dipping low, accelerating it seemed as night approached. The black vehicles ticked, the only noise in the vast stillness. Drake was already tired of the desert landscape, the dust and the heat, the sand in his boots.

“It’s such a vast wilderness,” Karin surprised him by saying. “How can we hope to find anybody out here?”

“That’s why Jenny’s here. She’s the best of her kind.”

“A fiery redhead?”

“If that works for her I’m good with it. People tend to go with what works for them, especially if it helps them get through the slog of the day.”

Karin walked uphill to the camp’s perimeter and dropped down onto a patch of infertile ground, a faint path. Before her an expanse of desert stretched, endlessly bleak, seemingly lifeless, and Drake found himself likening it to Karin’s heart and soul, if not the entire team’s. How fitting that they ended up here in the wake of Komodo’s death.

It suited his mood. “As bleak as it gets,” he said, sitting beside her.

“You think?”

Probably not. He kicked at the tiny rocks. “How do you feel about getting drunk?”

Karin turned, eyes open and focused upon him for the first time. “There’s a time and a place. It sure didn’t work for you.”