Ceremony in Death - J. D. Robb [77]
She punched in the code on his storage tube. There was a faint hum as circuits were engaged. The unit opened dark, polite brown eyes. “You wish a match?”
“Yeah, pal, I wish a match.”
“Boxing, karate—Korean or Japanese—tae kwon do, kung fu, street style. Self-defense programs are also available. Contact is optional.”
“Straight hand-to-hand,” she said, backing up and gesturing. “Full contact.”
“Timed rounds?”
“Hell, no. We go till one of us is down, pal. And out.” She curled her fingers in a come-ahead gesture.
“Acknowledged.” There was a faint humming from the unit as he self-programmed. “I outweigh you by approximately seventy pounds. If you prefer, my program includes a handicap—”
She brought her fist up hard and fast, an uppercut to the jaw that snapped his head back. “There’s my handicap. Come on.”
“As you wish.” He crouched as she did and began to circle. “You did not indicate if you desired vocal additions to the program. Taunting, insults—” He staggered back as her foot whipped up and plowed into his guts. “Compliments or suitable exclamations of pain are available.”
“Come at me, will you, for Christ’s sake?”
He did, with a swiftness and force that had her stumbling back, nearly losing her footing. This, she decided as she pivoted and caught him backhanded, was more like it.
He blocked her next blow, shifted weight, and wrapped his arm around her throat. Eve planted her feet, elbowed, and flipped him over her shoulder. He was up like lightning before she could attempt a pin.
His gloved fist made a solid connection with her solar plexus, pushing a whoosh of air out of her lungs and ringing bright pain straight into her head. Doubled over, she followed through with a head butt, stomped hard on his instep.
When Roarke walked in ten minutes later, he watched his wife fly through the air and go skidding across the mat. Lifting a brow, he leaned back against the door and settled down to watch.
She didn’t have time to gain her feet before the droid was on her, so she grabbed one of his ankles, twisted, hauled, and thrusted. Her mind was a blank now, a black blank. Her breath was heaving, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood inside her mouth.
She went at her opponent like a hail storm, cold and relentless. Each jab, each blow, each kick given or received sang through her body with icy, primitive rage. Her eyes were flat with violence now, her fists merciless as she concentrated on the head, working the droid back, back.
Frowning, Roarke straightened. Her breath was wheezing out now, all but sobbing, yet she didn’t stop. When the droid staggered, went down on its knees, she crouched for the kill.
“End program,” Roarke ordered, and caught his wife’s rigid arm before she could kick the droid’s lolling head. “You’re going to damage the unit,” he said mildly. “It isn’t designed for to the death.”
She bent over, resting her hands on her knees, to catch her breath. Her mind was full of red now, red rage, and she needed to clear it. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away.” She eyed the droid, who remained slumped on his knees, mouth slack, eyes blank as a doll’s. “I’ll run a diagnostic on it.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He started to turn her to face him, but she broke away, moved across the room for a towel. “In the mood for a fight?”
“I guess I wanted to pound something.”
“Should I suit up?” He was smiling a little. Until she lowered the towel. The rage had drained from her face. All that was left in her eyes was misery. “What is it, Eve? What happened?”
“Nothing. Just a rough day.” She tossed the towel aside, moved to the cold box unit for a bottle of mineral water. “So far, Wineburg’s house is a bust. Nothing there to help us. Sweepers didn’t find anything in the garage, either. Didn’t expect them to. I jabbed some at Cross again, and at Alban the Magnificent. Had a consult with Mira. Her daughter’s a Wiccan. Can you beat that?”
It wasn