38

A ring of kerosene lamps marked the boundary of the dug-out pit, casting a bright stadium-like glow over the waterlogged ground. Rebel soldiers jostled for position on the edge, eager for a good view of the impending death match between Hornet and the White Warrior.

Connor glanced up at the hostile crowd. He’d experienced some tough bouts in his rise to becoming UK Junior Kickboxing Champion, but this made each and every one of them seem like a playground fight by comparison.

On the opposite side of the pit, Hornet pulled off his T-shirt to reveal a rippling six-pack and a multitude of scars, clear evidence that he was a hardened fighter. In his injured and exhausted state, Connor realized his chances of defeating the boy were close to zero. But he refused to let himself think like that. His kickboxing trainer, Dan, had instilled in him an indomitable fighting spirit: The will to win is the way to win.

Connor went through his pre-match rituals, shaking his limbs loose, stretching and bringing his mind into sharp focus. He knew he couldn’t conquer his opponent through strength, so he’d have to be quicker, more agile and more cunning in his fight strategy. He needed to end it fast and hard.

“This isn’t a dance!” shouted one of the boy soldiers as Connor limbered up his legs. The crowd burst into mocking laughter.

Connor ignored the heckle and called up to General Pascal, reclined in a deck chair at the edge of the ring as if he were some Roman emperor. “What if I beat your champion?”

Glugging from a bottle, General Pascal snorted in amusement. “If you win, I’ll let the girl go. If you don’t, then”—the general shrugged—“you won’t be in any state to care what happens to her.”

Amber stared down at Connor in mute terror as Blaze ran the back edge of his machete across her cheek, goading Connor to react. But this threat to Amber’s life only strengthened Connor’s resolve to fight to his dying breath to save her.

“Let the battle begin!” General Pascal announced, raising his bottle in a salute.

Like a pack of ravenous hyenas, the crowd whooped and whistled their approval.

Hornet roared straight in, charging across the pit like a bull elephant. Connor stood his ground, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for the exact moment to make his move. Hornet lowered his head, turning it into a battering ram that would flatten a tank. At the last second Connor sidestepped the boy and simultaneously directed a hammer-fist strike to the base of his skull, targeting a knockout pressure point just below the right ear.

Hornet went down as hard and heavy as the buffalo that the Wolf had shot. He slumped face-first in the mud. The whooping crowd fell silent, shocked at the impossibly swift defeat of their champion. Then they began to jeer.

“I win,” declared Connor.

General Pascal smiled knowingly. “I don’t think so,” he replied, pointing in the direction of his fallen soldier. “All you’ve done is make him angry.”

Connor turned to see Hornet up on his feet, shaking his head clear and back on the attack. Yelling a battle cry, he swung a sledgehammer of a fist at Connor’s head. With barely time to duck, Connor stepped forward and drove a vertical punch into the boy’s solar plexus. Grunting from the force of the blow, Hornet grew more furious and elbowed Connor in the jaw. Already weakened from No Mercy’s assault with his AK-47, Connor was momentarily stunned and reeled away as Hornet pressed his advantage and launched a blistering attack. He hook-punched Connor in the gut, then pummeled him in the lower ribs. Connor gasped as a fist struck home and opened up his stitched wound. Hornet saw the increased flare of pain in Connor’s eyes and struck again.

As the boy pounded him with relentless fury, the soldiers surrounding the pit began to chant, “Hornet! Hornet! Hornet!”

Forced to retreat from the onslaught, Connor soon found himself up against the wall of rebels. They pushed him back into the pit. Hornet was waiting for him. He grabbed Connor, lifted him high in the air, then brought him crashing down into a large pool of muddy water. Connor crumpled like a rag doll. Hornet dropped on top of him and shoved his head beneath the surface.

Cut off from air, Connor struggled in the boy’s merciless grip. The shouts of the crowd became distorted and his mouth flooded with marshy water. Briefly his head came up, and as he snatched a desperate breath, he heard Amber screaming his name above the baying of the crowd. Then Hornet forced him back under.

Spluttering and blinded, Connor tried to buck his attacker off. But Hornet was simply too heavy and too strong. Feeling his own strength fading fast, Connor knew he was in a fight to the death. In a last-ditch attempt to free himself, he reached behind for Hornet’s inner thigh and pinched the yako nerve point.

Nothing happened.

Connor squeezed harder. But Hornet kept him pinned under the water. Perhaps the boy was tougher than Dredd, but Connor had seen Ling use the exact same nerve point on a two-hundred-pound hit man, and that guy had leaped away as if electrocuted. For some unexplained reason, Hornet was immune to the technique.

Connor clawed at the mud around him, trying to pull himself free. His hand came across a stone. He grabbed it and, in a final act of survival, smashed the rock down on his attacker’s bare foot. Hornet let out a grunt of pain. Connor struck again. This time he heard a sickening crack of bones and Hornet released his grip, rolling away in agony.

The crowd booed as Connor clambered back to his feet. However, by the time he turned around to confront his opponent, Hornet had limped over to the edge of the pit and picked up a shovel.

Wielding the shovel like a weapon, he snarled, “Time to dig your grave!”

Connor instinctively reached for his father’s knife on his hip, but discovered it was missing. From the sidelines, No Mercy waved the knife teasingly at him.

Hornet swung the shovel. Connor leaped back as the metal edge almost sliced him in half, then ducked as the shovel came back at him. Hornet roared in frustrated anger and brought the shovel arcing down toward Connor’s head. With nowhere left to retreat, Connor had to dive to one side. As he rolled back to his feet, Hornet took another swing and the shovel hit him square in the back. Connor went down as if he’d been hit by a bus.

Winded and in pain, he crawled away through the mud. Hornet bore down on him, raising the shovel to land the killing blow. In that moment, Connor realized it was all over.

Then he heard Amber scream, “Behind you!”

Connor glanced over his shoulder. A metal panning sieve lay discarded at the edge of the pit. It would have been out of his reach, except that the boy soldier Dredd had casually kicked it down the slope to him. A small gesture for the life debt he owed Connor.

Connor seized it and held it over himself as a shield. Hornet’s shovel clashed loudly against the metal pan. Infuriated, he struck again. Connor deflected the blow, then kicked out with all his might at Hornet’s knee. There was an excruciating crunch and the boy staggered backward, screaming in pain.

Leaping up, Connor smashed the shovel from Hornet’s grip with the pan, then caught him across the jaw with it. Discarding the pan, he locked his hands around the dazed boy’s neck and yanked him down hard onto his driving knee. Blood spurted from Hornet’s flattened nose. Connor repeated the knee strike over and over, knocking the boy senseless. When his opponent’s legs went from under him, he released his grip and let Hornet collapse in the mud. Fueled by rage and the instinct to survive at all costs, Connor now picked up the shovel and lifted it high above his head to strike a final blow. Crippled and half unconscious, Hornet held up a hand in a pitiful attempt to defend himself.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” chanted the soldiers, caught up in the bloodlust.

Connor hesitated only briefly, then brought the shovel down with all his strength, striking a rock beside Hornet’s head.

There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd.

“How could he miss?” cried one of the soldiers.

Weary and battle worn, Connor tossed the shovel aside. “I don’t kill,” he said, more to himself than the rebel crowd. “I protect.”