The other men are scattered around the room.
A pause the space of an eye blink.
Rev whirls again, the now-I-assume dead man flying around…tumbling through the air in the direction of a henchman in the corner parallel with the door. The body doesn’t quite make it, but I realize it’s not supposed to. Rev hurls and then springs, crossing a dozen feet in a breath, charging shield first.
Smash.
It’s a wet crunch, and there are two bodies on the floor, more blood on Rev’s shield, blood on the wall.
Now cornered, Rev grins. It’s a snarl, a challenge.
He scans.
“Get him!” José snaps.
Men move from the center of the room. One draws a knife from his boot, a fixed blade. Another snaps open a folding blade. Another whips his wrist, and a black tube telescopes open, a thick knob at the tip. The fourth shoves his hand into his pocket and comes up wearing brass knuckles.
Rev doesn’t draw his own knife. In fact, he tosses the shield aside.
Assumes a low crouch, a fighter’s stance.
They creep forward, four of them. They hold their knives like they know what to do with them, like they’ve used them before. Not that I know what that looks like, but the way they hold them, the way they move, it just seems like they’re not novices at this knife fighting business.
Rev, unarmed, moves toward them. They spread out, surround him.
My heart is in my throat, pounding behind my esophagus.
There’s a tense, silent moment punctuated only by pained groans.
And then all four attack at once.
None of that movie nonsense where they politely wait one by one to get their butts kicked. It all happens at once, almost faster than I can follow.
Rev lunges forward, one hand knocking a knife aside and grabbing the knife-wielding wrist, his other fist smashing hard into an elbow, which turns inside out with a sickening crunch. Rev keeps hold of the wrist, his booted foot lancing out one way, cracking ribs audibly. He hops, boot withdrawing, but it’s a cocking motion, and his boot flickers again, cracks into a knee; the man, ribs caved in, knee bent the wrong way, collapses. Rev still has the knife-wielder by the wrist—the man is half slumped, crying out through gritted teeth. Rev yanks upward, hard; I watch the shoulder dislocate, already ruined elbow separating further. Rev’s knee smashes—ribs cave in.
My stomach lurches, acid biting at my throat and teeth.
I realize something—his fights in the cage? Those were himholding back. Fighting for show. A polite, friendly boxing match.
This is pure brutality.
All of the preceding happens in a matter of perhaps five seconds.
The other two are still approaching, the long, fixed blade boot knife and the telescoping club thing.
The club swings, but Rev dances out of the way. His fist darts, snake-bite fast. Same place José hit me, but the man collapses instantly. As he goes down, Rev strips the club from him, whirls, gripping it so the club is pointing down, along his forearm. The knife-wielder lurches, a feint. Rev ignores it. The one he’d hit is struggling to his knees. Rev, moving idly, nonchalantly, kicks him in the head with a short, choppy kick. He slumps, out cold.
Now it’s José, Tony, and the knife guy.
Not even a full minute has passed since the first gunshots echoed out in that foyer hallway.
Rev holds the club along his forearm, held in front of him, his other fist near his face. I see him watching José, Tony.
He doesn’t look at me.
Men lie groaning, bleeding.
The knife guy waits, and then when he thinks Rev is looking elsewhere, he strikes. It’s a long, wide, curving slice, horizontal, lurching forward and swiping out hard. Rev uses the club to block the cut, shuffling backward. Then, when the man’s strike leaves him forward and off-balance, Rev slides forward on an angle, past his opponent, fist striking like lightning—once, twice, three times, all to the same spot in his ribs, like a jackhammer. He’s not done. Spinning, Rev flips the club around and swings low, connects with the back of the knee and then yanks upward—the man is jerked up off his feet, airborne.
