Red Stripes by Matt Hilton Read Free Book Online

skylights to fight by.
    I walked to the center of the room, and John Crow also came forward. I kept my back toward where I’d left my gun.
    Crow rocked from side to side, loosening the muscles at his hips.
    I stood, nonchalant.
    “Ready?”
    I nodded and settled my weight on my back foot.
    Crow began a dance to a rhythm inside his head.
    There’s a form of dance popular in Brazil called capoeira . To an uneducated eye its execution looks similar to the moves employed by hip-hop break-dancers, very athletic and acrobatic. But as was the case with many folk dances, it disguised a deadly purpose behind the more flamboyant flourishes and somersaults. Back in the bad old days, capoeira was a way for African slaves to continue practicing their martial arts right under the noses of their overseers, and many an unwary whip-wielding slave master had discovered the true meaning of the dance at their peril.
    Crow moved constantly, his feet changing position in a triangular pattern as he performed the ginga , a ploy to deceive a combatant while he set up his next moves.
    I waited.
    Crow tested my defenses with a front push kick.
    I merely adjusted my stance, swaying away from his uncommitted attack.
    Crow smiled.
    His follow-up was delivered with more intent.
    He bent from his ginga, placed his right hand on the ground and pivoted on it, his back heel coming around scythe-like at my head.
    I bobbed beneath his attack and his leg sailed over me. But his first kick was a feint, and he pivoted again, and the same leg swung at a lower arc, coming for my ducked head.
    I’d a few unarmed combat tricks up my own sleeve. I didn’t try to leap back to avoid the kick. I stepped in and rammed the tip of my left elbow into the meat of his thigh, aiming for a cluster of nerve endings.
    Crow grunted at the pain flaring through him. But he was as tough as his toned body suggested. He went onto both palms, doing a handstand, and both his heels jabbed at my face in quick succession. I had to disengage to save myself the crushing blows. Crow came back to his feet, grinning, segueing back to the ginga seamlessly despite the agony in his right leg.
    Capoeiristas aren’t known for their skill with their hands. Generally, men practiced the style with their wrists bound, hence the proliferation of kicks and somersaults while supported on the palms, but it appeared that John Crow had added to his repertoire. He swept in with another front kick, but immediately followed it with a left jab and right cross taken from western boxing. His left missed but the right sent sparks through my skull as it connected with my forehead. If he’d struck a little lower I’d have been in a worse situation. As it was, my mind went black for a split second, but I counterpunched by instinct and my knuckles drove into his sternum.
    Crow fell back, but the move was contrived. His rear leg absorbed the drop, bending at the knee and supporting him like a dwarf flamingo as his opposite foot shot out and got me good in the nuts. Gagging on the nausea that spilled into my guts, I took two hurried steps back, and lucky that I did. Crow placed both palms on the ground and did some sort of move akin to a gymnast on a pommel horse. His foot swept around and aimed to hook my ankle. I hopped ungainly over the top of it and staggered away, even as Crow sprung forward, stood on his hands and cartwheeled both heels at my skull. I felt the wind displacement of the first kick. Then his second heel thudded painfully into my left shoulder, and my arm went numb.
    It was pointless wasting any breath on a curse. I moved laterally. Crow came after me, a literal whirling dervish. His baldy pal egged him on, chanting in rhythm to the ginga , aiding the Albino Vulture’s dance.
    Okay, I told myself. Time to show them I didn’t have two left feet either.
    I took a half step forward, immediately switched stance and shot out a kick at Crow’s forward leg. He took the bait, drawing his leg away and