Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [154]
Flood hit the floor as though driven by the Cobra’s strike, but she was moving just ahead of his hand—she hit the floor with one palm and her own leg lashed out, the toe shooting toward his kneecap. I heard the crack before I saw him crumple and go down on one leg, the other twisted behind him—useless now. He clawed at her pants to bring her to him but she spun away and swirled to face him head-on—a blonde ghost—too quick for a Cobra to catch.
Now it was the Cobra who was rooted to the ground, but his fangs still worked. Flood danced in, stepped past his hand-strike, and caught the side of his head with a spinning kick. His neck twisted with the kick, but he brought his hand around again just quickly enough to block her next shot. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heart—and the Cobra’s raspy mouth-breathing.
Flood moved back over to him, set herself, rocked back on her right foot, and the left fired kick after kick—a heel to the side of the head, a toe to the neck, her powerful leg flashing inside the silk pants. He blocked some—but not enough. Flood was a graceful surgeon, cutting away flesh and bone to get to a tumor.
Then she stepped right into his grasping fingers, looking down as he clawed up toward her groin—and kicked the other arm at the elbow joint. Another crack and he was down, face to the floor.
She turned her back to him and went to her altar. She bowed deeply, reaching into the red silk folded on the little table. And when she turned again, the long metal spike was in one hand.
As she approached the Cobra her body flowed into a crouch. She leaned forward, reaching out with her left hand, the spike held next to her hip on the right. The Cobra looked up at her, brought his hand out from under his body and held it out palm up. In surrender.
Flood rocked back on her heels, a puzzled look on her face. And the Cobra struck. Scrabbling like a super-speed crab, he pushed himself off the floor with his one good leg and fired both hands at her throat.
Time stopped. I was watching the whole thing as if the room were full of crystal-clear Jello—everything in slow motion. His body was flat to the ground, his spine arched backward, his hands just about at her face when she brought her right hand around her hip and up into his exposed throat. Up on her toes now, but still in her crouch—the force of her strike lifted his upper body off the ground, where she held him, suspended, with her one hand.
Time froze them like that until her thighs flexed and she slowly straightened up—the Cobra, his throat still connected to her right hand by the spike, slowly rose with her. It seemed forever until Flood’s right arm shot forward, pulling the Cobra up like a rag doll, then flipping him straight back. His head hit the hardwood, and he was flat on his back—the handle of the spike sticking out of his throat.
I looked down at what was left of Martin Howard Wilson—his face contorted, locked forever into his last thoughts. The spike must have gone right through the throat and into his brain. The snake would never crawl again.
Flood was out of gas. I started to move to her before she fell, but Max quickly stepped forward, shaking his head no at me—she had to finish this herself. Max bowed his head and so did I—looking down at the dead Cobra—but not out of respect. I could see the muscles tremble slightly in Flood’s thighs, in spasm from the strain. One arm hung loosely, probably broken. Her expression: half-warrior who had survived a battle to the death, half-schoolgirl who had just gotten her heart’s ultimate desire.
Time passed. Flood’s breathing smoothed and her legs stopped trembling. She worked her head from side to side, ignoring the blood flowing down one cheek, then held out her hands and Max and I came to her and each took one.
We turned and walked to the altar. Flood knelt, took the Cobra