Red Stripes by Matt Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

turning into a back kick. But that’s what I expected. I half stepped again, and shot the same foot in for a jab at his previously injured thigh. Crow caught the move by instinct and began to twist aside, to protect both his leg and to set up his next attack, but my two half steps added up to me closing the distance without his knowledge. I was now within the arc of his kicks and his arms were out of range to either block or counterpunch. I struck two fast blows, the first to his left kidney, the next to the back of his skull. His spongy dreadlocks absorbed some of the punch to his head, but not all. He staggered, and spittle sprayed the air as he shouted in pain. I fisted my left hand in his mane of hair, whipping his head around and into the knee I powered into his face.
    Crow spat out blood.
    He was one tough bastard.
    He went to his hands, his heels windmilling toward my face.
    All well and good but for the fact that I’d retained a hold on his dreadlocks.
    I yanked his hair, pulled him bodily off his palms and spun him onto his back on the floor. Immediately I dropped a knee into his gut, pinning him down, while I rammed my fist into his face. I felt his left cheekbone compress under the onslaught. His jade-green eyes dimmed. I pounded him once more, this time aiming to crush his nose, and succeeded. He wasn’t such a handsome boy now. But neither was he finished. He spun on his shoulders, his knees coming up to butt me away. But he was in my fighting zone now and no way was I going to let him find his own range again. I went with his spin, kept my hand in his hair and knee in place and hooked my spare elbow around one questing hand that went after my eyes. Rolling back I caught him in an armlock that hyper-extended his elbow to the breaking point. I gave it that extra ounce of pressure and heard the tendons popping. Neither did I release his hair. His status symbol now became his undoing, as my hold on the dreadlocks meant he couldn’t find room to move his head and adjust any of the space between us to alleviate the agony on his elbow joint.
    I yanked down on his captured hand.
    His elbow broke.
    Let him try any of those fancy handstands now.
    He let out a howl and I kicked him away from me.
    He came to his knees, bent away from me as he painfully lifted his snapped arm to his chest. He was vulnerable and I wasn’t about to waste the moment. I shuffled after him on my backside and drove the toe of my right boot deep between his legs, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Crow collapsed onto his belly, his frame contracting around the agony in his balls.
    Crow’s shout of agony was echoed by one equally as full of fury as his was of pain. I came to my feet, but still at a crouch, my hand feeding into my boot.
    Baldy was probably thinking he was doing the right thing for his boss, even though he’d been given implicit orders to the contrary. He came running at me, and from down the side of his jeans he pulled a concealed knife that had gone unnoticed before. It had a short handle but a long blade, and was almost a mini-machete in design. He came at a lope, the knife going up and over his shoulder. He cursed me in patois, his words lost on me.
    I came to my full height, which was still a few inches below his six feet plus, but on this occasion my slighter stature was to my benefit. It meant my left arm easily got beneath his descending elbow and held off the downward swing of his knife. At the same time I plunged in and out with the push dagger in my right hand. Unlike a machete, my dagger was designed for such a task, and I found stabbing the baldy an easier task than I had when killing Hector Wallace. The diamond-shaped blade dipped in and out of his guts, and then, as he began to slump in agony, I gave it a new home in the side of his neck.
    The baldy fell to the floor, and blood squirted feebly across the stained linoleum as his heart fluttered and stilled.
    When I looked for John Crow, he was sitting on his