Noble Warrior (38 page)

The same could not be said about McCutcheon. A part of him wanted to bash Larson's skull. McCutcheon knew just the right spot on the temple to strike to cause immediate brain swelling,
too.

But another part of M.D. held back. Violence, his gut told him, wasn't the answer—it couldn't be—and the warrior within knew there must a higher road that he could take.
On one hand he hungered to take a life; on the other he yearned to never take one again. Though he'd killed before, having extinguished a person's existence once did not, he now
realized, make doing it again any less significant.

McCutcheon, not knowing what to do, was stuck, caught, snared by indecision. And as all warriors knew, the hesitant fighter was always lost.

Larson, sensing tentativeness, raged forward.

Cutting a fierce X through the air, Larson engaged again. Over his left shoulder, a strike from the right, an attack from the hip—
PINK! PINK! PINK!
—he targeted the crown of
McCutcheon's head, the side of McCutcheon's neck, and his face.

If even one of the blows had landed the fight would be over. These were immense blows being launched, one after the other. McCutcheon needed to commit, but to what aim? Was he willing to take
another life? Was he being forced to murder in the name of self-defense, or was there another path to victory he could embrace without causing death? The questions jumbled one on top of the other,
but he had no answers, and he fought like a man plagued by overthinking and indecision.

McCutcheon floundered and Larson gained the upper hand. It became a war of offense versus defense, attack versus protect, assail versus merely ward off. If M.D. didn't take committed
action soon, his defenses would surely give way.

Most 'roid monsters were more bulk than athleticism. Not Larson. He had tree trunks for thighs, but he also knew how to leverage them and explode from his hips. In stick fighting,
meaningful striking power always came from the hips, and Larson's pipe blasts thundered like bursts from a canon. The more he swung, the more his confidence grew. He was on track to win this
war and thus his freedom and the glory. To Larson it no longer was a matter of
if
he'd win, but
when
.

He launched two more blows—
PINK! PINK!
—and smiled. “Gotta say,” Larson taunted. “Thought you woulda had more in ya.”

He swung again.
PINK!
“Damn, I'm good,” Larson said aloud.

With his left palm high and facing inward, McCutcheon used his right hand to wield the pipe and guarded the left side of his head with his free hand. It was a classic defensive posture that
allowed him to fend off, parry, and avoid strike after strike. Then a shot landed. A forearm shiver that cracked M.D. in the jaw. Larson followed the shot with a hard knee to the ribs. McCutcheon
shot for his opponent's legs, but Larson proved quicker than M.D. had expected and sidestepped the attempted takedown.

With McCutcheon on the floor, after having missed a double leg shoot, Larson spun and crashed down with a monstrous overhead blow. Full speed, full pipe, a mighty man slamming downward from a
superior position. M.D. rolled away just as the steel crashed into the floor, and scampered to his feet. It was a miss but a close one.

His lip bleeding, his ribs pounding, McCutcheon steadied himself.

“Just so you know,” Larson said with a grin. “There's plenty more where that came from.”

It was kill or be killed.
Or was it??

His inner debate continued.

Larson's onslaught moved forward with another trio of shots.
PINK! PINK! PINK!
The Priests, Stanzer, even Kaitlyn knew that McCutcheon would only be able deflect, block, and evade
for so long. At some point he'd have to attack with purpose and meaning or he'd be defeated.

McCutcheon searched his heart and the answer became clear: he did not want to kill this man. Why? Because he yearned too deeply to do so.

The battle raged on—
PINK! PINK! PINK!
After another flurry of strikes from Larson, M.D. jumped over a stray bottle, moved into the center of the room, and made eye contact with
Kaitlyn. The look was brief but it was also deep and full of meaning.

Suddenly, McCutcheon knew what he had to do, and he switched his pipe from his right hand to his left.

Having spent hundreds of hours in the gym turning himself into an ambidextrous fighter, M.D. changed angles and attacked his foe high-low-high from the left.
PINK! PINK! PINK!
Larson
parried the blows, but for the first time in the battle he'd been forced to step backward instead of forward.

McCutcheon attacked again—
PINK! PINK! PINK!
—and while Larson fended off the strikes with a series of defensive blocks, Larson could feel the momentum shifting.

Which is exactly what M.D. wanted. He now knew his strategy. He saw his path to victory. The first phase of McCutcheon's plan—an aggressive assault—would set the stage for the
next wave of confrontation. His scheme worked perfectly, too, and M.D. got the exact reaction from Larson that he had expected.

McCutcheon turned up the heat because he knew that Larson would respond in kind. His foe considered himself an animal, a beast, and Larson's ego would not allow for an opponent to put him
on the defensive for very long. Larson, fury raging, went wild-eyed and raised his pipe, now more determined than ever to strike a vital target.

McCutcheon had figured out that Larson deeply wanted one big hit. The home run. A monstrous knockout shot to the teeth, temple, or nose. He didn't just seek victory; Larson sought
unforgettable destruction. Only a barbaric blow that would echo through the room with shock would suffice. Aside from a few feints to the knees, everything Larson launched had been high, high,
high.

Which allowed McCutcheon to anticipate the next angle.

His quest for the big smash was his weakness. Trachea shots, pipe blasts to the center of the face, blows like this were wonderful paths to victory if they could be landed. However, top stick
fighters knew that the most important target area in a battle featuring metal poles for weapons, was the opponent's hands.

A pipe to the knuckles was all it would take. One clean smash and Larson would drop his steel, entirely disarmed. No, it wouldn't be sexiest path to victory, but it would be effective,
like taking the fangs from a snake.

McCutcheon timed it perfectly and his metal pipe exploded against the middle knuckle of Larson's right hand, just as his enemy attempted to bring a massive downward strike onto
M.D.'s head. The was no
PINK!
Just a muffled
thud
, the sound of steel smashing meat.

Larson's pipe
tink
ed to the floor, and two Priests recoiled in horror as Larson's hand instantaneously swelled to the size of a grapefruit. M.D. went low.

CRACK!
He smashed Larson's left ankle and the bone misaligned from the foot. M.D. spun, did a 360-degree turn to generate maximum speed, brought the pipe around the side of his
head, and
CRACK!
went for Larson's other ankle.

But missed.

Instead of hitting Larson near the top of his foot, McCutcheon drove his pipe into Larson's lower shin. The steel severed the tibia bone like an ax breaking through a piece of firewood,
and Larson's leg dangled off its bone, the bottom still attached to the top only because of the threads of ligament holding the pieces together.

Blood began to seep through his pants. Larson, in shock from the pain, tried, inexplicably, to take a step forward and attack.

He collapsed on his face, his leg unable to support any weight. McCutcheon pounced, dropped a knee into the middle of Larson's back, and forced his enemy's left arm to extend outward
from his body in a straight line. With Larson's palm down and fingers extended like a starfish, McCutcheon raised his pipe high in the air.

Fear filled Larson's eyes. He knew what was coming but had no way to stop it. His hand would have to absorb the upcoming blow at full speed unless the plea in his eye could convince M.D.
to relent.

McCutcheon gave no quarter. Palm down, knuckles up, his fingernails pointed toward the sky, M.D. brought down a colassal pipe blow onto the center of Larson's outstretched hand.

The
CRACK!
of shattering bones caused a gangster to gag. If it wasn't for the skin surrounding Larson's fingers, the bones in his hand would have gone ricocheting across the
floor like a blast of billiard balls exploding on a pool table. Larson had been defeated, but his life had been spared. Captured yet defanged. No, McCutcheon would not take his life, but also he
would not allow this man to pose any further threat. Each appendage of his opponent had been rendered useless, and it might be years before any of Larson's four limbs functioned properly
again.

M.D. rose to his feet, victorious. Puppet nodded. The conquest was complete.

McCutcheon dropped his pipe, picked up the knife sticking up out of the floorboard, and swished the blade back and forth across the leg of his jeans in two crisp, clean strokes. He cut the rope
tying Kaitlyn to her chair. He wished she hadn't just seen all that, but she had, and M.D. knew he couldn't change that.

When the last bit of twine released her arm, Kaitlyn leaped up and bounded into McCutcheon's arms.

“I'm sorry,” McCutcheon said, hugging her close. “This will never happen again.”

She embraced him with all her might and tears fell from her eyes.

BAM!
A gunshot rang out.

BAM! BAM!
Two more.

All eyes turned. Smoke rose from the barrel of the Sig.

“I assume no one has a problem with that,” Stanzer asked.

The eight Priests in the room, caught entirely off guard by the gunshots, stared at the huge holes in Larson's chest. Each gang member looked at one another seeking a consensus, as a
puddle of dark red began to form around the deceased cop's body. The deal was that if Larson won he'd walk scot-free. No one had said a word about honoring a deal should Larson lose.
The Priests had probably expected McCutcheon to end Larson's life anyway. Just like they expected Larson to kill M.D. should he have had the chance. But McCutcheon didn't take the
man's life and Larson had lived.

Not anymore.

“Naw, no problem,” Puppet said speaking for his people. Priests always pay, but they get paid, too. With the way everything went down, Puppet figured there were no more debts.

“You ready?” Stanzer said to McCutcheon in a nonchalant voice.

M.D. and the colonel locked eyes. Kaitlyn had already seen too much, and now Stanzer had just delivered her a front-row seat to seeing even more.

“You call that justice?” McCutcheon asked.

“Indeed I do. The conclusive kind.”

M.D. shook his head, but Stanzer, feeling no qualms about his actions, simply holstered his weapon. He knew who he was, he knew what he stood for, and he knew that this mission required
finality.

McCutcheon, arm draped over Kaitlyn, nudged her toward the door.

“Well, ain't that romantic,” Puppet said. “Like a Hollywood movie and shit.”

A few Priests laughed and rose to their feet. It wasn't the funniest joke they'd ever heard but it broke the tension. Each of them knew they were lucky to be alive and they
couldn't wait to get out of there.

Without warning, Kaitlyn released herself from underneath M.D.'s arm, turned, and walked over to Puppet, a soft and gentle look in her eyes.

“I just want to thank you for not hurting me.” Puppet towered over Kaitlyn by six inches and probably outweighed her by ninety pounds. “I know you had your opportunity,”
she said.

Puppet smiled. “Well, that's because I'm not just a businessman, I'm a gentleman.”

He grinned. Kaitlyn's eyes turned from soft to fierce and she struck. Spiked Puppet with a straight right hand to the throat. He gagged, and she followed with a knee to the groin, and then
a technically perfect hip sweep that sent the gang leader flying over her shoulder, landing flat on his back.

“Oomph,” Puppet groaned as he crashed to the floor, completely blindsided by the attack. Kaitlyn pounced like a cougar, pressed both of her knees against the top of Puppet's
shoulders and began wailing on him with left, right, left punches straight to the center of his unprotected face. Stunned and caught entirely off guard, Puppet absorbed blow after blow at full
strength and his face began to give way. His nose, his teeth. Blood streamed in gushes before anyone in the room had a moment to react.

“You think I'm afraid of you?” Kaitlyn screamed. “Do ya?” She hammered away like a tiger, ferocious, determined, and fearless.

It all happened so quickly that none of the Priests knew how to respond. They all thought she was just some rich, soft, pretty, delicate girl, yet she'd just sucker-punched a
two-hundred-pound man and was standing over his body tearing up his face. Three Priests made a move to go after her, but Stanzer quickly drew his weapon and the gang members froze, the
colonel's message clear: first one to touch her gets a bullet.

With Puppet's lights turned out and Kaitlyn raging on his face, M.D. jumped in to stop her before she beat him into a coma.

“Okay, okay,” McCutcheon said as he dragged her off Puppet.

Kaitlyn scowled at the other Priests, blood running from her fists. “When he wakes up, you tell him a little bitch did this to him. All of you better watch who you mess with. You hear
me?”

“Let's go,” M.D. said hustling her out the door. “Enough.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” she screamed. “Not a damn one of you!”

M.D. pulled Kaitlyn out of the room, leaving's Puppet pummeled body lying semiconscious on the floor next to Larson's corpse. Stanzer, his Sig still drawn, backed out of the
building, and five seconds later the three of them were safely outside, protected by the cover of the team in the field. It didn't really matter, however, because none of the Priests dared to
follow.