Temple of the Gods - Andy McDermott [44]
Michelangelo raised his staff again, bringing it high over his head to crush Eddie’s skull like a watermelon—
Eddie grabbed Kusanagi and swung it upwards as the staff lashed down. A sharp crack of wood against metal – and the bo’s end was neatly chopped off by the sacred sword, its edge still keen even after centuries.
Even with his weapon reduced to two-thirds of its length, the ninja struck again. This time, Eddie used the sword not to parry but for leverage, shoving himself out of the wreckage and rolling on to his feet. Michelangelo’s thrust fell short. Another attack, but this time Eddie was prepared.
He swung the sword as hard as he could at the ninja’s neck.
Swordsmanship was not one of Eddie’s combat skills, fists and firearms the majority of his military training. The blade caught the ninja flat-on instead of with its edge.
But that was enough. The sword made an almost musical ringing note as it hit the side of Michelangelo’s jaw like a hammer. Spitting blood, the ninja crashed through another display, shattering jade figurines.
Eddie had no time to celebrate. The other ninja made another charge, nunchaku flailing so quickly they were a blur. One of the handles clanged off the sword as the Yorkshireman defensively snapped it up. Donatello instantly adjusted his movements to send the next strike past the ancient blade, the chain looping around it. He pulled back sharply, trying to yank the weapon out of Eddie’s hands.
This time, Eddie kept a firm grip. He charged, driving the blade at the ninja’s stomach.
Donatello was too quick, twisting out of the way. He braced himself as Eddie collided with him, then with a rapid movement freed the nunchaku from the sword and turned to strangle his adversary with its chain . . .
Eddie headbutted him in the face.
The dark blue of the ninja’s balaclava suddenly blossomed with a damp purple patch around his mouth and nose. Even with his eyes screwed shut, he still tried to attack again. The nunchaku swished through the air—
Hitting nothing. Eddie had ducked.
Now it was his turn again – and with a roar he thrust the imperial sword with his full strength, transfixing the ninja through the stomach all the way to the hilt. Donatello gasped, mumbling in Japanese before collapsing face-first into the broken glass of Kusanagi’s shattered display case.
‘Cowa-fucking-bunga,’ Eddie rasped, forehead throbbing from its impact with the ninja’s nose. He straightened and looked round. Michelangelo was still alive, on all fours and clutching his truncated staff. But the way to the door was now clear – and his gun was just outside.
He ran. The last ninja scrambled up, but Eddie was already past him. The Makarov had landed about ten feet beyond the door. He crossed the threshold, bending to snatch up the weapon—
Something shot past him just before he reached it. The bo staff, hurled like a javelin – not at him, but at the gun. It hit the Makarov and sent it skidding through a set of open doors into an adjoining room.
Eddie looked back at Michelangelo, who was now searching for something on the ground . . .
Leonardo’s katana. Michelangelo seized the sword and pointed it angrily at Eddie – then sprinted towards him with a howling battle cry.
‘Oh, fuck!’ Eddie ran himself, racing after the gun. The doors had been closed when he dropped down from the vent; the ninjas must have entered through them. Beyond was a traditional Japanese dining room, rows of low tables with tatami mats on which the diners would sit lined up along the polished wooden floor.
Where was the gun? It had skittered over the slick wood – and ended up beneath one of the tables.
But which one?
He reached the first table and flipped it over. No gun. Next table. Still nothing. The ninja’s padding footsteps were rapidly closing. Third table, nothing. He grabbed the next in the row and flung it back