RainStorm

where it could deflect an attack and
    keep Belghazi away from the gun if he sprang in suddenly.
    The street was well lit, and the container area was dark by comparison.
    My eyes weren't fully adjusted. The van was obscured by
    the containers that had fallen around it. I couldn't see the driver-side
    door.
    I moved up slowly, inching forward, my eyes scanning left and
    right, the gun tracking my searching vision. Scan and breathe. Front
    foot down. Slide forward. Pause. Check position. Again.
    Belghazi's eyes wouldn't be any better adjusted than mine, but I
    knew the streetlights were backlighting me, exposing my position.
    I needed to move into the dark. I started to circle to my left.
    Something hit me in the left ribs like a battering ram, finding its
    mark between my chin-level free hand and the stomach-level gun.
    There was an explosion of pain and I went flying backward. As I
    hit the ground I could hear Delilah's voice: With his kicks he can
    break individual ribs. Or maybe three or four at a time.
    My body did a judo ukemi breakfall of its own accord, a quarter
    century of muscle memory taking over without any input from my
    conscious mind. The breakfall distributed the impact and saved me
    from further damage. Lying on my back now, I tried to bring the
    gun up to where I thought he would be, but he had already moved
    in. His foot blurred off his chambered hip in some sort offouette or
    spiral kick and the gun blew out of my hand. I felt the shock up to
    my shoulder.
    He stepped back and reached inside his jacket. What he pulled
    out flashed in the lights reflected from the street and I realized razor, just as Delilah had warned me.
    I brought my legs up to try to kick him away, and was surprised
    to see him take a step back. I thought, He knows your background, he's
    being careful about closing, even with the razor, but then I saw him wiping
    blood from his eyes and realized the pause was driven more by
    necessity than by tactics. He must have gotten smacked around
    when the van hit the containers.
    He swayed for a second, and in that second I rolled backward
    and sprang to my feet. I felt a hot stab in the ribs where he had
    nailed me and thought, If I get out of this, I will carry a blade, I don't
    give a shit about all the good reasons not to.
    I took two more steps back to buy a little distance, then glanced
    down at the ground. I didn't see the gun. There were too many
    shadows, and too much junk lying around: cracked wooden pallets,
    container doors, sections of chain-link fence. To my right was a
    pile of what looked like oversized metal hubcaps. I swept one up,
    liking its heft. If there had been a handle on it, I might have used it
    as a shield. Instead, I slung it like a Frisbee. It hissed through the air
    straight for Belghazi's midsection. He jumped left and it sailed past
    him. Damn, even with the head injury, he was light on his feet,
    more like a dancer than a typical kickboxer. He started to move
    toward me and I snatched up another of the metal disks, seeing as
    I did so that after two more I would be out of ammo. I sent it flying.
    He dodged again. I grabbed the third and fourth and flung
    them rapid-fire. The first went high and he managed to duck under
    it. But the duck cost him his mobility, and he couldn't get out
    of the way of the next one, which was heading straight for his
    head. He raised his razor hand to protect himself and the disk
    slammed into it, knocking it back into his head. I saw the razor
    tumble out of his grip and felt a rush of satisfaction.
    He stood up and glanced down, and I immediately took two
    long steps toward him. He looked up at me, knowing that he wasn't
    going to have time to grope for and recover the weapon, and we
    stood facing each other for a moment, each of us breathing hard.
    He hitched his pants up slightly, creating a little more freedom of
    movement for his legs. That's it, I thought. Give me one of those fucking legs. I promise to give it back when I'm done with it.
    I had to be careful, though. His physical skills and toughness
    were obvious, but more than that I expected his tactics to be sound,
    too. Old-style savateurs practice what they call malice, or dirty fighting,
    using improvised weapons, deception, anything to get the job
    done. It becomes a mindset, a mindset with which I am firsthand
    familiar. I expected that Belghazi would be equally so.
    I circled left, my hands up in a boxer's stance. He did the same,
    his hands held lower, his