Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [153]
The Cobra ran to meet her, shifting his upper body so it was parallel to the ground and firing a sharp roundhouse kick off his right foot. Flood flowed under the kick without changing her position, and he whipped the left foot back to the ground and lashed out with the right—Flood wasn’t there.
I looked over at Max—the Cobra was quicker than I thought he’d be, and he was fighting her correctly. An amateur would try and use his greater upper-body strength against a woman, but his longer legs gave him more power with less risk. Someone had trained him well—his concentration on Flood was total. Max and I weren’t in the room for him anymore.
Flood still hadn’t moved. The Cobra faked a chop with his left hand, spun into a tightly controlled back-kick, and used the forward momentum to fire three quick chopping strikes in one burst. The first two missed—Flood took the last one on her elbow, spun into it, and twisted her hips to launch an elbow at his exposed face. The Cobra leaned back, his lips parting as her arm shot by, but Flood kept spinning, aiming an eye-dart that just missed, raking the side of his face. First blood. The Cobra rolled to the floor and lashed up at her ankles with his heel, supporting himself with his palms.
Flood shot past the Cobra’s leg and exploded into the air, dropping down toward his face with one leg punching out like a piston.
The Cobra, true to his name, slithered sideways on the hardwood and aimed a powerful chop just as Flood’s foot flashed past him. She took it on the outside of her thigh, grunted, hit the floor with one leg and lashed back at him with the other. She caught him square in the ribs, but he was off his feet when it landed. He flew backward, hit the floor, and spun back up—his hands had never touched the deck.
Flood stepped back, circling her face with her hands, weaving a tapestry of death from the air. The Cobra’s mouth was bloody where he had bitten into his lip. He feinted to his left, pivoted on his right foot, firing another kick in Flood’s direction—but she hadn’t moved. Her back was to the door—all the fakes in the world wouldn’t get him through the opening.
He advanced on her with an extended left hand, thrusting it in and out, circling to his left, not letting her get set to kick. He knew where the danger was—her feet, not her hands. He switched hands in a blur, his right fist shooting forward. Flood threw up her forearm in a block but it wasn’t clean—there was a sharp crack and her arm dropped down for a split-second as she spun away.
He knew what he had to do now. He moved in again, hands out. Flood kicked at his midsection but he was ready—twisting with the force of her kick, he brought his hand out and around in a full spin and caught her just below the eye. It looked like an open-handed slap—Flood’s head snapped back with the blow, but she instantly blasted him full in the chest when he tried to follow up. He staggered back, losing his balance, and she was on him, blood streaming from under her eye. But the staggering was a fake—the Cobra caught her coming in and landed a three-finger dart to the same spot—his hand came away bloody. Flood hissed, hooking clawed fingers at his face with both hands, but he was already backing away, breathing smoothly.
The Cobra was dancing now—up on his toes, shaking his wrists to get full circulation, relaxed. Flood stood as though rooted to the hardwood, one side of her face covered with blood. One eye was closed, but the other was clear and cold. I glanced over at Max—his face was composed but the cords of his neck stood out like high-tension wires, and his forearms were knotted steel. He was looking only at Flood. I knew what he was thinking—she’d never quit. Flood was wedded to the Cobra until death did them part.
I silently screamed at her: “Flood, he’ll never leave this room alive no matter what. You don’t have to die too . . .” But I knew it was useless—there was nothing in her mind but the Cobra’s blood on Flower’s grave.
He came in behind a cat-stance,