Hard Rain

kicked out from under its twitching body and
    rolled to a crouch.
    The dog started writhing on the ground, rubbing its snout frantically
    into the tarmac as though trying to wipe off the substance that was
    causing its agony. I held the canister closer. When the animal turned
    its wheezing face toward me, I aimed directiy into its nose and mouth
    and depressed the trigger. A thick cloud jetted out, and then, just as
    suddenly, died, the canister's contents exhausted.
    But it was enough. The dog's body launched into spasms that made its
    previous writhing look like playful stretching by comparison. Oleoresin
    capsicum irritant is ordinarily nonfatal, but I thought a concentrated
    dose like the one the dog had just received might prove the
    exception.
    I looked over at Murakami. He was on his feet, but was keeping his
    weight entirely off his wounded ankle. He had the Kershaw in his right
    hand, held close to his body.
    I looked down and saw the baton. I swept it up in my good hand and
    approached him, my left arm hanging uselessly.
    He was growling from deep in his chest, sounding not unlike his dog.
    I moved around him in a wary circle, forcing him to adjust, trying to
    gauge the extent of his mobility. I knew the ankle shot had been potent. I also knew that he might try to
    exaggerate the extent of the damage, to get me to over-commit and
    attempt to finish him too quickly. If he could grab the baton or
    otherwise get inside my guard, his knife and two good arms would prove
    decisive.
    So I took my time. I feinted with the baton. Left, then right. I
    circled toward the knife hand, making it more difficult for him to
    snatch something with his free fingers, keeping him moving, stressing
    the ankle.
    I let him get used to the left right feints. Then I ran one straight
    up the middle, jabbing the steel directly at his face and neck. He
    parried with his free hand, trying to grab the baton, but I'd been
    expecting it and snapped the unit out of the way in time. Then, just
    as suddenly, I backhanded it in, cracking him along the side of his
    skull.
    He dropped to one knee but I didn't rush in. My gut told me he was
    faking, again trying to lure me inside, where he could neutralize the
    greater distance afforded by the baton.
    Blood ran down from the side of his head. He looked at me and for a
    split instant I saw fear sweep across his face like a sheet of driving
    rain. His feints hadn't worked and he knew it. He knew I was going to
    wear him down carefully, methodically, that I wasn't going to do
    anything stupid that he could exploit.
    His only chance would be something desperate. I circled again and
    waited for it.
    I let him get a little bit closer, close enough to give him hope.
    I feinted and dodged, forcing him to move on his ankle. He was panting
    now.
    With a loud kiai he lunged at me, reaching with his free hand, hoping
    to snag a jacket sleeve and reel me into the knife.
    But his ankle slowed him down.
    I took a long step back and to the side and snapped the baton down on
    his forearm. I traded force for accuracy and speed, but it was still a
    solid shot. He grunted in pain and I took two more steps back to
    assess the damage. He held his injured arm against his body and looked
    at me. He smiled.
    "C'mon," he said. "I'm right here. Finish me off. Don't be
    afraid."
    I circled again. His taunts meant nothing to me.
    "Your friend screamed on the way down," he said. "He ..."
    I closed the distance with a single step and thrust the baton into his
    throat. He raised his injured arm to try to grab it, but I had already
    retracted it across my body. In the same motion I changed levels,
    dropping into a squat, and whipped the baton into his leg again. He
    screamed and crumbled to his knees.
    I stepped behind him, away from any possibility of a lunge.
    "Did he sound like that?" I snarled, and brought the baton down on his
    head like a hatchet.
    He sank down to his side, then fought to regain his balance. I brought
    the baton down again. And again. Gouts of blood flew from his scalp.
    I realized I was yelling. I didn't know what.
    I rained blows down on him until my arm and shoulder ached. Then I
    took a long step backward and sank down to my knees, sucking wind. I
    looked over at the dog. It was still.
    I waited a few seconds to catch my breath. I tried to jam the baton
    closed but couldn't. I looked at it and saw why. The straight steel
    rod had deformed into a bow shape from what I had done to Murakami.
    Jesus. I