Somehow I caught myself on my arms. The jolt rocked through me hard.

If I'd stopped to notice, I might've realized that I'd dislocated a shoulder or two, or maybe a kneecap. But I didn't, and apparently I hadn't. The slam of the impact and the wind seemed to bounce me back onto my feet, and I could still stay there, so in some sense I must've been OK.

Nakahatchi had resumed his floating stance, one hand raised and ready.

I could barely breathe, but he didn't show any sign of strain or even exertion.

That was about to change. I'd already suffered enough beatings to last me forever. But I'd also delivered a fair number of them. There were still thugs in Puerta del Sol enforcers, extortion muscle, bodyguards, and such who couldn't look at me without flinching. And I hadn't let a little thing like a bullet through my guts stop me from putting Muy Estobal out of everyone's misery.

Evaluate my character, fuck.

Ignoring my sore bicep and hamstrung thigh, my bruised knees and shocked shoulders and stunned respiration, I attacked again.

More cautiously this time. More slowly. And straighter. I didn't try to swing a roundhouse, or bring up a kick. That sure as hell hadn't worked. Instead I concentrated on jabs. And careful footwork, so that he couldn't turn my momentum against me. Jab jab jab. A quick step in. Jab cross jab. Another step.

Also I kept my eyes on his, studying them for hints. He'd counterattack soon. When he did, I wanted to see it coming.

He didn't meet my stare. Instead he kept his gaze focused on the middle of my abdomen.

For the first few flurries, he seemed content to block and retreat, block and retreat. His blocks were so effortless, so nearly gentle, that I couldn't figure out why I hadn't hit him yet. No matter how hard I punched, he merely patted my fist or my forearm with one hand or the other and stepped back. None of my blows reached him.

Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man.

Jab jab. Jabjabjab. I could not get inside his defenses.

Nevertheless I didn't consider surrender. My inner tornado consumed me. That blast demanded release. Clearly I wouldn't get a real chance to hit him until he stopped retreating, so I used my attacks to steer him toward one of the walls.

If he couldn't back up, I'd connect sooner or later. Or come close enough to get my hands on him. Then I'd have him. Hell, all I had to do was fall on the sonofabitch That might've worked, but he didn't stand still for it. Just when I thought I'd trapped him, and my desire to finally land a punch had become fire in my veins, he turned one of his patty-cake blocks into a sweep and stepped aside.

Behind me.

Inspired by pain and gales, I wheeled in the opposite direction, all the way around, and lunged after him.

He must've sensed what I was about to do, felt it before I moved. By the time I dove at him, he'd already retreated two steps, three out of reach.

Almost out of reach.

By stretching out headlong, and making no effort to keep my feet under me, I managed to grab the hem of his gi just above his sternum before the rest of me dropped to my knees.

Now, I thought through the roar, now he was mine. From here on it was just muscle, and he didn't stand a chance. If he believed that he could force me to let go by simply hitting me, he was about to learn an important lesson.

Only I was wrong. Again. He didn't hit me. While I scrambled to gain my feet, straining for leverage so that I could use my bulk, he calmly set the ball of his thumb into the hollow where my collarbones met. And pushed.

His thumb dug in. Damn, it dug in. He was going to strangle me. Crush my trachea. Already I couldn't breathe. Or see. Blackness stormed through my head, effacing everything else.

And it hurt. The nerve center in the super sternal notch has links throughout the torso. My brother taught me that, Rick Ax-brewder, Richard, he'd learned it while he was with the Special Forces. The brother I'd shot to death in drunken negligence.

With my free hand, I hacked at Nakahatchi's arm. He stopped me somehow. Suffocating around the pressure of his thumb, I hardly registered other sensations. Had he taken hold of one of my fingers?

Was he bending it backward? Did the agony of it pull me harder onto his thumb?

I clung to his gi anyway. Fuck him. In fact, fuck him with a crowbar.

He couldn't make me let go. Not just by hurting me.

Not me. I knew things about pain that would make him howl at the moon if I happened to mention them.

He made me let go.

An autonomic desperation compelled me. Just when I'd decided to hang on until he killed me or lost his nerve, I snapped. Releasing my hold, I wrenched sideways to twist my throat off his thumb, then frantically heaved myself upward, up and forward, over his tearing grasp on my finger.

His finger lock helped me go. My legs pitched at the ceiling, and I plunged face first at the floor.

Broke my neck, crushed two or three vertebrae, severed my spinal cord.

Or would have, if he hadn't caught me again. Anchoring me in the air until my legs finished their arc, he lowered my shoulders to the hardwood. Actually lowered them. Only my heels landed hard.

If I were lucky, I thought, stupid with shock, I'd shattered bones, and I'd never walk again. Then I wouldn't have to go on humiliating myself like this.

But I didn't stop. After a couple of seconds or a couple of minutes I rolled onto my side, then over to my chest. Pulled my knees under me.

Gasping for breath, I shifted my weight back onto my feet.

The pain made me gasp. My heels felt like they'd been hacked apart.

Serrated agony sliced along all my nerves into my brain.

Nevertheless I could stand. My feet held me.

Nothing else held. The windows and the floor and Nakahatchi all existed in dimensions of their own, drifting on trajectories that made no sense in relation to each other. Air shuddered in and out of my lungs, but it didn't help. There wasn't enough oxygen in all the world to turn me back into the man I was.

Somehow I didn't fall over.

While the room went off in all directions like hurled water, something in my head found its center. A place where no wind blew. An imponderable stillness cupped the dojo, humbling me when I didn't know how to humble myself.

Soon I could hear again. First the declining racket of my heart, the edged urgency of my breathing. Then the ambiance of the room, the shrouded complaint of traffic outside, the small splash of sweat dripping from my face to the hardwood. The faint deified susurrus as Nakahatchi shifted his feet.

Well, hell. Maybe he didn't actually float after all.

My face felt strange. For a few moments I couldn't figure out why.

Then I realized that I was grinning. I couldn't help it.

My list of hurts was too long to count, so I didn't bother. Instead I dragged my fists up in front of me, flexed my knees a bit, and took two or three fractured steps forward. When I was close enough to talk without raising my voice, I panted hoarsely, "You said you wanted to teach me. I'm ready to learn now."

I went on grinning.

For all I knew, grinning at your instructor was an insult. But he didn't look offended. And he didn't resume his fighting stance. With his hands at his sides, he bowed deeply. Then he announced, "We are done, Axbrewder-san. We will spar no more today."

"No, please." Straightening my legs, mainly because I didn't have the strength to keep them flexed, I opened my hands like an appeal.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get in the right frame of mind. I wasn't angry at you. I just needed a target. But I'm ready now."

I'd never been more sincere in my life. Whatever his secret was, I needed it. Badly.

"No." He shook his head gravely.