feet approached, ran past.
Stopped.
A slight tremor lit through his bones. He fought another round of panic. It had been six years since his last fight. He didnât stand a chance against a man with a gun. He desperately willed the feet to move on. Walk. Just walk!
But the feet didnât walk.
They scraped quietly.
Tom nearly cried out in his hopelessness. He had to move now, while he still had the advantage of surprise.
He threw himself to his left, rolled once to gain momentum. Then twice, rising first to his knees then to his feet. His attacker was facing him, gun extended, frozen.
Tomâs momentum carried him laterally, directly toward the opposite wall. The gunâs muzzle-flash momentarily lit the dark alley and spit a bullet past him. But now instinct had replaced panic.
What shoes am I wearing?
The question flashed through Tomâs mind as he hurdled for the brick wall, left foot leading. A critical question.
His answer came when his foot planted on the wall. Rubber soles. One more step up the wall with traction to spare. He threw his head back, arched hard, pushed himself off the brick, then twisted to his right halfway through his rotation. The move was simply an inverted bicycle kick, but he hadnât executed it in half a dozen years, and this time his eyes werenât on a soccer ball tossed up by one of his Filipino friends in Manila.
This time it was a gun.
The man managed one shot before Tomâs left foot smashed into his hand, sending the pistol clattering down the alley. The bullet tugged at his collar.
Tom didnât land lightly on his feet as heâd hoped. He sprawled to his hands, rolled once, and sprang into the seventh fighting position opposite a well-muscled man with short-cropped black hair. Not exactly a perfectly executed maneuver. Not terrible for someone who hadnât fought in six years.
The manâs eyes were round with shock. His experience in the martial arts obviously didnât extend beyond The Matrix . Tom was briefly tempted to shout for joy, but, if anything, he had to shut this man up before he could call out.
The manâs astonishment suddenly changed to a snarl, and Tom saw the knife in his right hand. Okay, so maybe the man knew more about street-fighting than was at first apparent.
He charged Tom.
The fury that flooded Tomâs veins felt all too welcome. How dare this man shoot at him! How dare he not fall to his knees after such a brilliant kick!
Tom ducked the knifeâs first swipe. Came up with his palm to the manâs chin. Bone cracked.
It wasnât enough. This man was twice his weight, with twice his muscle, and ten times his bad blood.
Tom launched himself vertically and spun into a full roundhouse kick, screaming despite his better judgment. His foot had to be doing a good eighty miles an hour when it struck the manâs jaw.
They both hit the concrete at precisely the same timeâTom on his feet, ready to deliver another blow; his assailant on his back, breathing hard, ready for the grave. Figuratively speaking.
The manâs silver pistol lay near the wall. Tom took a step for it, then rejected the notion. What was he going to do? Shoot back? Kill the guy? Incriminate himself? Not smart. He turned and ran back in the direction theyâd come.
The main alley was empty. He ducked into it, edged along the wall, grabbed the rails to a steel fire escape, and quickly ascended. The buildingâs roof was flat and shouldered another taller building to the south. He swung up to the second building, ran in a crouch, and halted by a large vent, nearly a full block from the alley where heâd laid out the New Yorker.
He dropped to his knees, pressed back into the shadows, and listened past the thumping of his heart.
The hum of a million tires rolling over asphalt. The distant roar of a jet overhead. The faint sound of idle talk. The sizzling of food frying in a pan, or of water being poured from a window.
Stopped.
A slight tremor lit through his bones. He fought another round of panic. It had been six years since his last fight. He didnât stand a chance against a man with a gun. He desperately willed the feet to move on. Walk. Just walk!
But the feet didnât walk.
They scraped quietly.
Tom nearly cried out in his hopelessness. He had to move now, while he still had the advantage of surprise.
He threw himself to his left, rolled once to gain momentum. Then twice, rising first to his knees then to his feet. His attacker was facing him, gun extended, frozen.
Tomâs momentum carried him laterally, directly toward the opposite wall. The gunâs muzzle-flash momentarily lit the dark alley and spit a bullet past him. But now instinct had replaced panic.
What shoes am I wearing?
The question flashed through Tomâs mind as he hurdled for the brick wall, left foot leading. A critical question.
His answer came when his foot planted on the wall. Rubber soles. One more step up the wall with traction to spare. He threw his head back, arched hard, pushed himself off the brick, then twisted to his right halfway through his rotation. The move was simply an inverted bicycle kick, but he hadnât executed it in half a dozen years, and this time his eyes werenât on a soccer ball tossed up by one of his Filipino friends in Manila.
This time it was a gun.
The man managed one shot before Tomâs left foot smashed into his hand, sending the pistol clattering down the alley. The bullet tugged at his collar.
Tom didnât land lightly on his feet as heâd hoped. He sprawled to his hands, rolled once, and sprang into the seventh fighting position opposite a well-muscled man with short-cropped black hair. Not exactly a perfectly executed maneuver. Not terrible for someone who hadnât fought in six years.
The manâs eyes were round with shock. His experience in the martial arts obviously didnât extend beyond The Matrix . Tom was briefly tempted to shout for joy, but, if anything, he had to shut this man up before he could call out.
The manâs astonishment suddenly changed to a snarl, and Tom saw the knife in his right hand. Okay, so maybe the man knew more about street-fighting than was at first apparent.
He charged Tom.
The fury that flooded Tomâs veins felt all too welcome. How dare this man shoot at him! How dare he not fall to his knees after such a brilliant kick!
Tom ducked the knifeâs first swipe. Came up with his palm to the manâs chin. Bone cracked.
It wasnât enough. This man was twice his weight, with twice his muscle, and ten times his bad blood.
Tom launched himself vertically and spun into a full roundhouse kick, screaming despite his better judgment. His foot had to be doing a good eighty miles an hour when it struck the manâs jaw.
They both hit the concrete at precisely the same timeâTom on his feet, ready to deliver another blow; his assailant on his back, breathing hard, ready for the grave. Figuratively speaking.
The manâs silver pistol lay near the wall. Tom took a step for it, then rejected the notion. What was he going to do? Shoot back? Kill the guy? Incriminate himself? Not smart. He turned and ran back in the direction theyâd come.
The main alley was empty. He ducked into it, edged along the wall, grabbed the rails to a steel fire escape, and quickly ascended. The buildingâs roof was flat and shouldered another taller building to the south. He swung up to the second building, ran in a crouch, and halted by a large vent, nearly a full block from the alley where heâd laid out the New Yorker.
He dropped to his knees, pressed back into the shadows, and listened past the thumping of his heart.
The hum of a million tires rolling over asphalt. The distant roar of a jet overhead. The faint sound of idle talk. The sizzling of food frying in a pan, or of water being poured from a window.