The Unwilling(77)

But Jason was already in the cold place, the killing place. He raised his hands, and watched X circle, looking for the feint, the feint within the feint. Hands. Feet. The flick of an eye. Sometimes the feints were words designed to distract or disarm. It was a favorite strategy.

Unsettle the mind; destroy the balance.

Destroy the balance; obliterate the man.

But Jason was prepared for that, his shadow on the wall as they circled, X’s feet a whisper on the stone, his hands up as Jason made the first move, a flurry of blows and kicks, a feint of his own before drawing first blood with a jab so fast and sharp it split skin like the rind of a melon.

X showed no sign of pain or surprise, the only change a single blink as blood dripped into an eye. “I understand your father came to visit you. Strange that he never did so before.”

Jason said nothing.

Circling.

“Has he changed, do you suppose? Or does he sense some change in you, some reason for hope where none existed when last you were here?”

“Are we fighting or talking?”

“In the past, we’ve done both.”

X’s words were like a shrug, but what followed was the most perfect display of controlled violence that Jason had ever seen, an explosion of movement and contact that left him staggered and stunned. X drew blood twice, then backed away, looking displeased.

“Again,” he said; and came for Jason with the same relentless speed. This time Jason did better, blocking a string of blows before landing four good jabs and a punch to the ribs brutal enough to drop most any man alive. X just grunted, and came again, hard strikes to the face, a kick that numbed Jason’s leg from the hip down. He took a single step, and the leg folded.

“Enough!” X turned away, angry. “Did I imagine the man you were two months ago? Have I misremembered, somehow?” Jason spit blood, and X looked down his nose. “This is pitiful. Stand up.”

Jason straightened slowly, but X came fast, knocking him down twice more, then spitting once, and showing his back to underscore the contempt. After that, his attacks were clinical, strategic, perfectly executed. But the more strikes he landed, the more frustrated he became, lashing out harder and faster until he’d backed Jason into a corner, words grating from his throat with every blow.

Never … been … so … disappointed …

But Jason was in the corner for a reason, absorbing the blows until X hit him a final time, still flush with disgust. “Stand up, for God’s sake.”

He lowered his guard, and that was all Jason needed, a quarter second to strike out backhanded, the knuckles of his fingers and palm making simultaneous strikes on a pressure point at the center of X’s eyebrow and the facial nerve below his left cheekbone. Done perfectly, the blow would cause excruciating pain and a near-instant blackout. But X twitched at the last moment, just enough to stay on his feet. Still, he was stunned; and that, too, was all Jason needed. He struck out stiff-fingered, caught X in the throat, then followed with a blur of jabs and a right cross big enough to fold X at the knees. Jason met him on the way down, twisting through the hips with an uppercut that might have killed a lesser man. Even X seemed half-dead when he hit concrete, eyes down to slits as he coughed out blood and bits of teeth.

Jason straightened, breathing hard. It had been a near thing. Another minute, and he’d have had no fight left.

Destroy the balance.

Obliterate the man.

That was the midnight decision: to make X angry, to build the anger into rage, and the rage into disdain. It was the only path Jason had left, so he’d taken the hits, the pain, and done it for what?

A quarter second.

The blink of an eye.

Jason dragged out a chair, found a bottle of wine, and waited to see if X would drown in his own vomit before color rolled back into his eyes. He considered helping the man along—ten full seconds of that fucking close.

When X could focus, he found Jason in the chair, the bottle half-empty. “I knew it,” he said. “I was right…”

“About what?”

But X didn’t answer. He was too busy bleeding, and nodding, and weeping tears that looked like joy.



* * *



For Warden Wilson, the world had long ago ceased to make sense. His office? What did it matter? His responsibilities? The future? How long since his wife had touched his hand or smiled? Or since his sons had called him father?

Could X actually die?

Of course, he could be physically killed, but what provisions had he made? The man was insane, vicious, and richer than sin. He had lawyers, mercenaries, God alone knew what. And only God knew what would happen if X died prematurely.

“Excuse me, sir?” The warden’s secretary appeared in the open door. “Visitor processing still needs an answer, and the doctor called again. I really think you should go.”

“Very well.”

The warden rose from the desk yet seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. His secretary had ideas about X—many did—but only a few understood the monster in the basement: those who’d paid the price, and lived afraid. Buttoning his coat, Warden Wilson made his way to the subbasement under death row. Two guards stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Status?” he asked.

“He’s with the doctor. He’s alert.”

“Mood?”

The same guard looked at the other, then shrugged. “I’d say he looks happy.”