The Killing Hands by P.D. Martin Page A

and, in fact, I can feel a slight buzz in my shin where his forearm blocked my kick and connected with my leg. I’m wearing shin guards, but hisforearms are amazingly hard. Damn, he’s good. Then again, I probably shouldn’t be able to connect a blow with my instructor. Not when he’s been studying kung fu most of his life.
    I try again, with another series of kicks and punches, including a spinning side kick, multiple jabs and even some fakes, where I start to throw a punch or kick then withdraw and go for my real move. But he’s fast enough, even for these. As usual, he’s left untouched and I’m left frustrated. One of these days…
    He smiles. “Okay, my turn.” He glances briefly at the wall clock—five minutes before class starts. Now, the stream of students coming through the doors is at its peak—allowing people just enough time to get changed. There are more sets of eyes on us, and some people have moved closer to see the action. The onlookers make me self-conscious, but they also spur me on. I may not have been able to hit Sifu Lee, but hopefully I’ll be able to block most of his incoming strikes. I’m also aware that he won’t be using full force or speed—that’s too dangerous, especially since we’re so unevenly matched. Lee’s hands are lethal weapons, so he’ll have to hold back.
    Again we start side-on from each other, in horse stance with our guards up. Lee begins with a couple of punches delivered at low speed. After I easily block those, he starts to increase the pace. Blocking is definitely my strong point. I’ve always been able to pick what my sparring partner is about to do next and react accordingly. Until recently, I’d assumed it was good reflexes, but now I think maybe my psychic abilities allow me to sense what’s about to come.
    I adjust back and cross-block Lee’s incoming roundhouse kick.
    â€œVery good,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. He waits only a second before sending some faster strikes my way, all aimed at my head. Again, I’m able to block these, but this time it takes complete concentration.
    I move down to block a low punch—Lee changed it to catch me off guard. He keeps them coming, high, middle, low, and throws in a few kicks, but only one punch connectsand even then I’d blocked almost in time, diminishing its impact.
    Lee bows. “I’m impressed. Your blocks are still much better than your punches, so let’s keep working on improving your strikes.”
    I smile and notice with some triumph that there are a few beads of sweat on Lee’s upper lip. It’s taken me four months of these one-on-one sessions to get him to sweat. He definitely stepped things up toward the end, too, and he may even have been close to going full speed with the last series of strikes.
    We both take our helmets off and Lee gives me a small bow before turning to face the students who mill around us. “Okay everyone, line up please.”
    I move to the front of the class, and Marcus and the other second- and third-dan black belts join me. We always line up according to level, with the most advanced students in the front.
    â€œYou nearly had him that time, Sophie,” Marcus says, before taking the spot next to me. Like Lee, Marcus is also of Asian descent, though I’d put him as only one-quarter. He’s taller, at around six-two, and more overtly muscular than Lee. He wears his hair short all over, which accentuates the masculine angularity of his face—a wide square jaw, pronounced brow and high cheekbones. His skin is slightly olive, but that could be an L.A. tan rather than his racial heritage.
    â€œOne of these days I’m going to connect.”
    Marcus laughs, highlighting two large dimples.
    â€œYou ever tried sparring him?” I ask.
    â€œOnce. And once was enough. But I should do what you do, organize to come in early and train with