Satori - Don Winslow [86]
Beautiful and doubtless deadly, he thought, although not as efficient as hoda korosu. But that was the main distinction between Chinese and Japanese martial arts — the former used many elaborate and circular moves while the latter emphasized one quick, direct, fatal strike.
Nicholai contemplated which was superior and decided that it was the Chinese for beauty, the Japanese for killing.
On the far side of the pavilion, Yu inflicted Communist doctrine on his students. One of the victims, a thick country lad named Liang, stared wistfully off into the bamboo thickets, doubtless wishing that he could find sanctuary there. But Liang was something of a special pet of Yu’s and so good-naturedly sat through the lecture as if genuinely interested. Yu had great, if misplaced, hopes for him.
One more day on the Dragon’s Tail, Nicholai thought. They would reach the river late the next afternoon and load their cargo onto the waiting boats. It would be a nice change to be on the water and off the arduous trail.
He walked back to the chamber that had been assigned to him. It was a small room with a single kang, the classic Chinese raised bed, which was draped with thin mosquito netting. Someone had already come in, lit a lantern, and left a thermos of hot water and an old porcelain cup with which to make tea.
But Nicholai craved rest more than the stimulation of the strong southern green tea, so he stripped off his clothes, climbed into the kang, and stretched out. He closed his eyes and told his mind to allow him five hours of sleep. He wanted to wake up well before dawn to make sure that the caravan got an early start.
Nicholai’s proximity sense woke him before his internal alarm did.
The two men smelled of cheap Chinese tobacco. Their heavy steps made clear that they were bandits and not professional assassins — they tried to walk quietly but were clumsy and obvious. Amateurs assume that to step slowly is to step softly, while professionals know that the opposite is true and are both quick and light.
Willing himself to remain still, Nicholai measured the slow heavy footsteps of the lead bandit as they creaked on the wooden floor. If they were going to use guns they would have done it already, but they apparently didn’t want to make noise and spring the main attack prematurely, before they had eliminated the leadership. So it would be a sword, a knife or an axe, maybe a garrote, but more likely an edged weapon that could slice through the mosquito netting, sparing the extra second to open it.
So there would be time for hoda korosu.
He edged his hand along the kang, felt for the teacup, and slid it beside him under the thin sheet. Silently he crushed the cup in his hand until he felt blood running from his palm, and then pinched the sharp shard of glass between his thumb and forefinger.
Then he waited.
The footsteps stopped and Nicholai felt the bandit pause as he lifted his arm to strike.
Nicholai swung the shard in a horizontal backhand that sliced the bandit’s throat. The knife arm came down in a limp, useless arc and then the bandit, his left arm futilely clutching his throat, pitched forward onto the kang.
The second bandit made the fatal error of backing up and reaching for the pistol at his belt as Nicholai launched off the kang, grabbed the heavy metal thermos, and swung it like a club. The man’s skull fractured with a sickening crack. Nicholai bent over his body, took the pistol, and stepped outside.
Red muzzle flashes tore the black silk fabric of the night.
Yu, clad only in trousers, stood with a pistol in his hand, trying to form the startled men into some kind of order.
Nicholai heard the zip-zip of gunfire and felt the little pockets of air concuss as the bullets flew past him. He had experienced bombings, beatings,