Nature of the Game by James Grady Page B

Nick’s feet into the air.
    Nick crashed onto his living room tiles.
    Clarity returned. Nick blinked. Saw Jud’s hand in front of his face. Froze.
    Jud plucked Nick off the floor as if he were a pillow.
    â€œNot bad,” said Jud, “but do you see what I mean about linear? This time, I’ll mix it up a little.”
    Nick went full speed. Jud seemed to move slower. He blocked Nick’s punch, stuck to his arm, said, “Block, and then aikido,” and he led Nick forward. Lightly touched his sternum. A giant hand uprooted Nick, pushed him through the air. He flew six feet straight back, hit the wall with his heels half a foot above the baseboards, then crashed to his hands and knees.
    Again and again. Attacks and counterattacks. Nick fought as hard as he could, his body tiring and sore. Carefully lecturing, never straining, Jud would “break” Nick’s elbow, tap his throat or eyes or the ribs above his heart, pull Nick’s punch into an immobilizing arm bar. Jud turned his fingers into a parrot’s beak; drove that hook into a nerve near Nick’s collarbone that novaed the world and dropped Nick like a stone. Jud dissolved before Nick’s punches, then stole Nick’s chi , used it to throw him back like God sweeping away table scraps.
    Nick refused to show pain. Never said stop.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Jud asked suddenly. He held up an empty wrist. “I hate clocks.”
    On the floor, Nick glanced at his watch. “Ten thirty-two.”
    â€œHell,” said Jud, “I got to go.”
    He helped Nick up.
    â€œThis was fun,” said Jud. “Maybe we’ll do it again.”
    He walked to the door.
    â€œOops!” He turned back, picked up his gym bag of secret gear. “Wouldn’t it have been funny if I forgot this?”
    â€œYeah,” said Nick, his heart hammering his ribs.
    He drew a normal breath; another. With that air came the realization that a power in which he’d believed but never known had now been met; hell, the power had held him like a doll in its hand.
    â€œTake care, Bro’,” said Jud. As he stood in the open exit, he looked back, smiled. “Be sure to lock your door.”

HALO
    I n the spring of 1990, the road beneath the wheels of Jud’s stolen car angled northeast from L.A. The sky turned gray with the coming dawn. He figured he had a few hours yet before this Chevy was reported stolen and logged into the highway patrol’s computer. Not much time, and he didn’t know if he could stay awake to use it.
    A green exit sign said REST STOP . He pulled in, rolled past semi trucks, their drivers napping in cab bunks. A Doberman pinscher poked his head above one semi’s steering wheel.
    Never liked big trucks anyway, thought Jud.
    A man in a cowboy hat shuffled into the bathroom from a cattle truck loaded with battered furniture. No one else was in the truck. Jud parked, grabbed his bags, and hurried toward that vehicle. He’d worn cotton gloves ever since stealing the car in L.A. If he could make this E&E improve, he’d leave no trail. A blackboard blocked the truck’s rear window. Jud threw his bags in the cargo box and crawled over the side. He settled in the shadows, between a battered rocker and a musty couch.
    Don’t check , he prayed. Don’t check, he willed.
    The driver didn’t. Came back and pulled the truck into the highway, drove it down the road. Two miles later, Jud stretched out on the couch. He drifted to sleep. Cold wind rushed around him, carried him to dreams of warmer days….
    Saigon, 1969. The damp city smelled like barbecuing fish and diesel fumes. And just a whiff of nerves. The enemy’s Tet Offensive was more than a year-gone history. That countrywide chaos was a political victory but a military defeat for the guerrilla Viet Cong and their North Vietnamese Regular Army buddies: this was one tough, strange little war.
    But life went on in