The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [26]
brain focused only on the man in front of him, a flicker of motion from the curled brown glove, a lightning jab that whistled past his ear. He ducked, too late, another jab thumping hard straight into his face, square on his nose, watering his eyes. He backed up a step, the man coming forward, closing the gap, sensing some vulnerability, but Adams was angry far more than he was hurt. The jabs had been a nuisance, nothing more, but had kept him off balance just enough to keep him from setting his feet, getting in the good shot of his own. He ducked again, moved to one side, frustrated, but kept his focus, an unshakable stare on the man’s chest, the one place the fighter couldn’t feint. Adams tried not to look at the man’s gloves, knew to ignore the flickers of movement, the quick shift of the man’s head, all the fakes designed to mislead. Adams held his own gloves up tight to his chin, his elbows in against his ribs, protection from a man who was becoming less and less of a threat. There had been a few hard punches, one catching Adams flush on the side of the head, but there had been no thunder behind it, no effect at all, and from those first few moments, Adams knew it was only a matter of time. Adams continued to back away, watched as the man pursued him with a clumsy bobbing of his head. His opponent was tall, lean, spiderlike arms, his best asset, used them perfectly, keeping Adams away with the jabs to his face. But there was no damage from that, just the massive annoyance, infuriating frustration from the man’s pecks and probes, the occasional attempt at a heavier shot into Adams’s face. But the man’s lack of power had seemed to discourage him, and as the fight moved into the third round, the gangly man worked harder to keep Adams away. Adams had seen this before, a man no longer fighting to win, but just to survive. The jabs continued to come, flickers that mostly slipped past Adams’s ears, bouncing off his gloves, anything to keep Adams out of close range, keep him off balance. In his corner the sergeant was spewing out words, instructions, advice, words that melted away with the shouts and cheers of the Marines on the open deck around them. Adams had forgotten about the plan, the careful strategy, the sergeant’s instructions meaningless now, the only thought in his brain the search for the opening, seeking the gap, the space, the target. He saw the man glance away, toward his own corner, and Adams jumped, no time for thought. He sent the left out in a sharp curl into the man’s ribs, heard the grunt, the man’s gloves coming down slightly, helpless reaction. Adams saw the opening, moved with perfect instinct, rammed a short hard right hand to the man’s chin, opening his mouth, twisting his jaw, a spray of blood coming off the man’s wounded lips. The man bent low at the waist, staggered back into the ropes, another glance toward his corner, seeking … help. Adams dropped his arms for a quick second, flexed slightly, fighting the stiff pain, the exhaustion in his muscles. The man was shaking his head, blinking hard, scrambled eyes, trying to focus, and Adams saw the flash of fear. The man pulled his gloves up to his face, feeble protection, and Adams was there, ignored the one weak jab, the man’s last desperate punch. There were no more feints, no dancing, the man still against the ropes, and Adams moved closer still, his eyes on the man’s chin now, made a quick short step to the right, and in one motion turned into the man, driving his right hand past the man’s left, a compact bolt of lightning against the man’s exposed jaw. The left followed, a tight upward swing, but there was no target, only air. The tall man had gone down, crumpling into the ropes, rolling over onto his back. Adams leaned low, ready, his arms cocked again, the anger spilling onto the fallen man, words in his brain, get up! I’m not done! The man still held his hands up in front of his face, pawing the air, but there was nothing else, blank eyes, his brain off in some other place. Adams was breathing heavily, felt a hard arm across his chest, pulling