Hard Rain

him."
    Adonis. Should have known.
    "Or..."
    "Or you can fight three people that I pick. You're so good, I'll make
    sure they have police batons. The crowd will like that, too. It's all
    the same to me."
    I was in a box. I picked the easiest way out.
    "I'll fight," I told him.
    His eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. "Yes, you will."
    "Anything else I need to know?"
    He shrugged. "No shirts, no shoes, no weapons. Other than that,
    anything goes. There's no ring. If you get too close to the edge of
    the crowd, they'll shove you back to the center. If they think you're
    running from the other guy, you'll take a few punches, too. Good news
    is, the winner gets two million yen."
    "What does the loser get?"
    He smiled again. "We take care of the funeral expenses."
    I looked at him. "I'll take the money."
    He laughed. We'll see. Now pay attention. You're up first. That
    gives you fifteen minutes. These guys will stay with you to help you
    get ready." He turned and walked away.
    I looked at the two goons. They kept a respectful distance, reducing
    my chances of making a sudden move and getting past them. Even if I
    could, though, there were men working the door. Several of them were
    watching. My chances would be better with Adonis.
    I wondered about the number of fights. Multiple payouts would reduce,
    maybe even eliminate, the house's take.
    I pushed the thought aside and slipped off the navy blazer I was
    wearing, then my shirt and shoes. I looked over and saw that Adonis
    was doing the same.
    Some vicious thing inside me stirred. I felt it in my gut, the back of
    my neck, my hands.
    I thought of Musashi, the master swordsman, who wrote, You must think
    of neither victory nor of defeat, but only of cutting and killing your
    enemy.
    I stretched and shadowboxed. I let my focus narrow. It didn't matter
    where I was.
    Murakami walked over. He said, "Let's go."
    I moved to the center of the room. Adonis was waiting there.
    His pupils were dilated and his hands were shaking. He looked juiced,
    maybe kakuseizai. Speed would give him a short-term energy boost, help
    him focus his attention.
    I decided to give him something to focus on.
    I approached him, not slowing until I was in his face. "How's your
    buddy's ankle?" I asked. "Sounded like it hurt."
    He stared at me. His respiration was rapid. Pupils, black
    basketballs. Definitely kakuseizai.
    "Try that on me," he said around clenched teeth.
    "Oh no," I said. "I'm not going to break your ankle. I'm going to
    break your knee." I took a half-step back and pointed. "That one
    right there."
    The idiot actually let his glance follow my outstretched finger. I
    tensed to launch an uppercut to his gut, but Washio, wise to such
    things, had seen it coming and jumped in between us.
    "You don't start until I say start," he growled, looking at me.
    I shrugged. Can't blame a guy for trying.
    "They'll be taking you out of here in a bag, fucker," Adonis said.
    "That's a promise."
    Washio shoved us apart. The crowd tightened like a noose.
    "Are you ready?" Washio asked Adonis, who was bouncing on his toes
    like a hyperactive boxer.
    Adonis nodded, glaring at me.
    Washio turned to me. "Are you ready?"
    I nodded, watching Adonis.
    "Hajime!" Washio cried, and a collective shout went up around us.
    Adonis immediately feinted with a kick and took a side step back. Then
    again. We started to move in small, migrating circles.
    I saw what he was up to. For him this was effectively a hometown
    crowd. He would have friends in the audience. The movement of our
    circles would gradually take us closer to them and give them access to
    me.
    But the presence of those friends would also engage his ego. "Doko ni
    ikunda? I taunted him, moving to the center. "Koko da? Where are you
    going? I'm right here.
    He took a step forward, but not enough to close the distance. My
    earlier taunts had focused him on his knees. He was afraid I would
    shoot in on him the way I had on his friend, and thought that keeping
    his distance would prevent me.
    I dropped my arms a few centimeters and kept my head and torso slightly
    forward. He steadied himself on his feet and I could feel him thinking
    Kick. His kicks were good, too. I'd seen him practicing. If I were
    him, I'd try to wear me down from extended range, try to keep me away
    with those long legs.
    He planted his left foot forward and whipped in a right roundhouse
    kick. His foot smacked into my left thigh, then snapped back to the
    ground. I felt a bolt of pain and