Hellbenders

Travis’s eyes turned up in his head, and he toppled backward, unconscious before he hit the mat, his head bouncing hard, twice, before he came to rest.

“I need nothing,” Juan said in a low growl, turning to where Krysty stood. His eyes were dulled by blood lust, and they bore into her with a stony expression. “So what do you need?” he added coldly.

“Nothing,” the woman replied, her own eyes equally cold, the hair about her face and neck fluttering wildly as the prehensile tissue within it responded to the sudden danger. “And that really wasn’t necessary. If you have something you want to prove, then prove it.”

“I just have,” Juan said.

Krysty raised an eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t notice you tell Travis you’d changed the rules.”

“There are no rules.”

“Yeah? You gonna tell Correll that if Travis can’t take part in the attack—if anyone else you mess up can’t take part in the attack?” She waited, but the Hispanic refused to answer.

Krysty continued, “Thought not. If you have something to say to me—something to prove to me—then you deal with it with me. Understand?”

Still keeping her eyes on him, Krysty moved onto the mat. She removed the blaster that was holstered in the small of her back and placed it at the side of the mat, her eyes still fixed on the Hispanic. Juan moved back and thumbed his cheek, wiping sweat from it. His eyes were like steel as he returned her stare.

“So you want to go the whole way?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “If that’s what it takes.”

“What about your boyfriend?” Juan asked her, gesturing to where Ryan was positioned, his forearms and calves entwined on a rope dangling from the ceiling. The one-eyed man was observing, but made no effort to move for any of his blasters or for his panga. Indeed, he kept his face set and hard, betraying no emotions of any kind.

Krysty didn’t look over her shoulder. She knew how Ryan would react. It was imperative that she fight this battle herself, and that he be seen openly to give her no support. All the companions had to prove to the Hellbenders that they stood by themselves, and that although they were together there were no free rides. They also had to show— if possible—that they were better fighters, and stronger.

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Krysty replied calmly. “This is you and me. I win, you stop playing the fool and work toward winning the real battle, not showing off like a triple-stupe kid.”

“And if I win—which I will?”

“Then you can chill me if you like. No one, and I mean no one, will stop you,” Krysty answered.

“Then it begins,” Juan said simply.

He moved forward, crouched low, his gaze needle sharp to spot the slightest movement of muscle that would betray her intentions in terms of direction and action. Sensing this, Krysty stayed still, the only thing that moved being her hair.

“Ya know,” Juan muttered in a menacing undertone, “the only thing I hate more than a smart-mouth is a mutie. And you’re nothing more than a smart-mouth mutie bitch, which puts you lower ‘n the lowest gaudy slut.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to rile me,” she replied.

Now! Before she even had a chance to finish the sentence, Juan had made his move, stepping forward on his right foot and feinting a chop with his right hand. Her speech should have been enough to slow her defenses for that vital second for him to break through, especially as he wished to deceive her over the actual direction of the blow. In theory, she should have moved late to stop a right-hand blow and left herself open to a left-hand attack. At least, that was what Juan expected. What he got was an entirely different matter, as Krysty moved in the opposite direction and then bent into the now misplaced left-hand punch, grabbing his wrist and using the momentum to throw the Hispanic off balance. Juan was thrown forward, and as his rib cage passed her, she brought her foot up in a vicious kick, the pointed silver toe of her boot catching him beneath the last rib and driving the breath from his body. He screamed with the pain and tried to turn and fall well as she released him, her parting gesture being to viciously twist and sprain his wrist as she let go.

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