The Dead Fleet (Juggernaut #3)

Sixty Five

The kick staggered him but didn't take him down. He wobbled backward, caught himself and stopped. He still held the table. He held it across his chest like a shield. A shield with four legs. He ran at Tila.

Tila flicked out the staff, striking the table legs, rim and underside of the hard plastic surface, but she couldn't hit the man carrying it.

He swung it in both hands with big, wide sweeps that forced Tila away. She didn't have the strength, reach or stopping power to hold him off.

He swung again, bringing one of the lower legs up and across his body.

Tila changed tactics. She stepped inside the legs and parried. The table was unwieldy, heavy and off balance. From here, Tila had the leverage she needed to hold off the swings.

He switched direction, took half a step back, and brought he upper right leg to bear. Tila's staff moved to counter. She parried this too, but this time the man pressed down, combining the weight of the table with the strength of his arms.

Tila knew this was a contest she couldn't win, so she changed the rules. One quick glance down showed her target. She stamped hard directly on to his foot.

He growled in pain and changed the rules himself, and drove the table forward like a ram.

Tila's feet were still out of position from her attack, and she tripped. The table surged forward, catching her full in the back and throwing her to the floor. Instinctively she dropped the staff, freeing her hands so she could catch her own fall.

She landed awkwardly. One wrist took the brunt of the fall and she felt a sharp pain shoot through her wrist and forearm.

Her staff rolled away.

Tila flipped onto her back in time to see the table swinging at her head. She crossed her arms in front her face and closed her eyes.

The table legs crashed onto the floor around her. She opened her eyes to see the underside of the table.

A strong hand grabbed her ankle and pulled. She kicked back with her free leg, breaking his grip. She kicked again and felt her foot scrape along shin bone.

The pirate yelled and threw the table aside with one hand, then he took a big step forward and stamped down hard onto Tila's chest.

Tila twisted and rolled to the side, throwing herself out of the way of his foot.

He took another step forward and stamped again, driving his heel into the ground where Tila's body had been.

She rolled again, kicking chairs aside, swiping at loose furniture with her hands to give her help, give her leverage, give her distance.

He kept coming, kicking aside anything still in the way. One foot just missed her stomach, another just missed her injured wrist.

Tila kept rolling. There was no time to counter, no chance to get to her feet. She needed distance.

She needed help.

Tila rolled into the reinforced toes of a pair of boots. The same black, unyielding boots worn by agents.

Tila looked up and saw what looked like a stunstick slide through the loose fingers of one hand.

And then also the other hand.

A large foot stamped down next to Tila's head. The pirate noticed the boots and looked up into the face of the woman dressed like an agent.

Tila's mother.

Grace looked down.

'Move,' she said.

Tila changed direction and scrambled out the way.

Grace attacked.

She held the tonfa reversed. They swung like hammers and caught like hooks.

The man retreated, defending himself with his arms. She struck his biceps and elbows, deadening muscle and fracturing bone.

No arms.

He tried to kick her. Grace turned aside, letting the foot and leg extend past her. She hooked one tonfa under his knee and pulled him off balance. The other hammered his knee. She let go. He tried to put his weight on it but it was useless now.

No legs.

He fell sideways, clawing at a chair for support. Grace hooked it out of his reach with her foot. She broke his hand with one weapon, and knocked him unconscious with the other.

No chance.

She turned back to her daughter who was again on her feet. Tila was bruised, her clothing torn. There were marks on her neck and hands. Her knuckles bled. Dirt streaked her pale face and all down one arm. Her injured wrist she held awkwardly to her side. She was breathing hard.

They looked around the room. The sound of fighting was almost gone. Here and there a few wounded pirates and agents groaned in pain. Anyone not making a noise was unconscious or beyond words.

The only sound of struggle came from one direction.

Tila and Grace turned together.

At the back of the room, by the door leading the way to the hanger, four agents stepped away from a struggling fifth figure. A pirate. He stopped struggling. They dropped him and turned as one to face Tila and Grace.

'I hope you have one more fight left in you,' said Grace.

Tila stretched her back, and it hurt. Flexed her injured wrist, and it hurt. She took a deep breath, and it hurt.

Everything was pain, but pain was good. Pain was a motivator. As long as you felt pain, you could feel, and if you could feel, you were alive.

You could submit to the pain or conquer it. You could give in or fight. There was no guarantee it would end but pain was the guarantee you lived.

Tila wanted to live, and she hated giving in.

The agents began to separate and encircle the women.

Grace flipped the tonfa back to her regular grip. Tila reached forward with her foot. Her toes touched the staff. She brought her foot back over the staff, giving it spin, bringing it closer. She touched her toe to the floor. The staff kept spinning up and over her foot. She lifted her foot, twisted her knee, hooked the staff and sent it spinning into the air.

'Always,' she replied, and caught the staff in one hand.

The agents attacked.