The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

The door opened to a roar from the crowd and a wave of blinding light; Joe squinted as they pushed him forward and forced him to ascend a ramp.

He stepped into a circular arena with a six-foot wall around it. It reminded Joe of a bullfighters’ ring except that the floor was made of wooden planking, complete with dark swaths where it had been stained with blood.

“That’s encouraging,” he muttered.

“You guys should bet on me,” Joe said to the guards in his corner. “I’m sure you’ll get good odds.”

Neither of them responded, and when Joe’s opponent arrived from a gap in the far wall, Joe understood why. The man was a monster. Six foot seven and muscle-bound from head to toe. Huge rounded shoulders tapered to a washboard abdomen and then widened out on a pair of tree-trunk-sized legs.

“Never mind,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t bet on me either.”

The guards behind him snickered, but Joe couldn’t have been happier. He knew he wasn’t alone. Someway, somehow, Kurt would try to rescue him. All he had to do was stay alive long enough for Kurt to do it. And in that situation, a big, slow bruiser of an opponent would be far easier to hold off than a quick-hitting martial artist.

Joe was pushed to the center of the ring. Weapons were offered. Joe took a staff, like the one he’d used to vault over the Komodo dragon. The Japanese version of Hercules took a pair of sticks, one in each hand.

A horn sounded and the bout began. Joe held the staff in front of him as the giant moved in without hesitation. Joe jabbed at him a few times with the point of the staff, slowing his approach.

His opponent took the first two in the ribs and shrugged them off as if they were nothing. He responded to the third jab with a vicious counterattack. Displaying incredible speed for such a big man, he brought the left-handed stick down and knocked the point of Joe’s staff into the floorboards, while simultaneously lunging forward and swinging the other half-staff toward Joe’s skull.

Joe ducked just in time, hearing a distinct whistling noise as the stick passed over his head. The crowd let out a collective gasp and Joe pulled back, resuming his defensive stance.

“Take it easy, big fella,” he said. “At least give the people a show before you cave my head in.”

He might as well have been talking to a wall. The man neither smiled nor frowned. He just charged forward once again.

This time, Joe dropped to the ground, shoved the staff between his opponent’s legs and levered it to the side. The big man’s knees buckled from the attack and he dropped to the ground.

Instead of injuring the man, Joe’s next move was to disarm the guy. He swung his staff like a nine iron, catching one of the sticks in his adversary’s hand and sending it into the third row. Patrons dove out of their seats to avoid the incoming missile and Joe laughed at them.

The sideshow gave his opponent a chance to stand. Joe hoped the man realized he’d deliberately gone for his weapon instead of his head.

Before they could spar again, the horn sounded, signaling the intermission between rounds.

The big guy returned to his starting area and was briefly tended to. Joe went back to his spot, but the guards just stared at him. He grabbed a bottle of water for himself, took a small drink and rested against the wall.

For the first time, he was able to study the crowd. It was an intimate setting. Seating for maybe a thousand people. They surrounded him on steeply sloped tiers and every seat was taken.

He looked for Kurt but found no sign of him. What he did see were security guards standing at every entrance and in each aisle. There was no way Kurt could get into the arena without being caught. A fact Kurt had no doubt already discovered. It meant Joe would have to keep fighting while Kurt found another way.

The horn sounded for round 2. Joe put the water down and stepped forward. “Make it quick,” he whispered. “I can’t dance with Godzilla forever.”

21

IN A LUXURY SUITE overlooking the arena, Walter Han watched the fight from behind thick glass. It muffled the sound of the crowd and the viciousness of the blows and allowed a sense of privacy. Scanning the arena through a pair of opera glasses, he saw nothing to indicate a rescue was under way.

“Anything?” Kashimora asked.

“Not yet,” Han said.

“So much for your plan to draw him out into the open,” Kashimora said condescendingly.

Han placed the glasses down and began to pace. The arrival of the American unnerved him. Not only because he’d been told they were all dead or in the hospital but because they’d struck so close to him. He had a survivor’s instincts and they told him he was in danger.

He explained what he knew to Kashimora. “Based on the description your doorman gave, you’re looking for a man named Austin. He’ll be wearing a distinctive white dinner jacket. The man in the ring is his comrade. Considering what I know about these two, neither will abandon the other.”

Kashimora smirked. “Bravado: I find it goes out the window when the stakes get this high. If Austin knows what’s good for him, he’s already looking for a way out of the building.”

“An effort I assume your men will prevent,” Han said.