Take your friend, Thomas said. His voice was no longer a gravelly plea. It was flat, resonant, and devoid of any human empathy. It was a command issued from the void. And leave.
Kyle swallowed hard. His ego forged in a prestigious downtown gym warred with his survival instinct. He was a black belt. He competed. He couldn't just walk away from a street bum who got a lucky shot on his drunk friend.
"You're dead, you old freak. " Kyle spat, though his voice lacked conviction. Kyle shifted into a fighting stance. He brought his hands up, tucked his chin, and began to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet. He was reverting to his training. Jab, cross, sprawl.
Keep the distance. Look for the takedown. Thomas watched him bounce. To a civilian, Kyle looked dangerous, professional. To Thomas, Kyle looked like a man preparing for a game that Thomas wasn't playing.
"Sport? " Thomas murmured almost to himself. "What? " Kyle barked, feinting a jab. "You train for sport? " Thomas said, his voice carrying clearly over the wind. Mats, referees, rules tapping out. Kyle threw a real jab this time, stepping in fast.
It was a good punch, sharp, technically sound, aimed right at Thomas's nose. Thomas didn't step back. He didn't try to block it away. He barely moved his head, letting the fist slip past his right ear by a fraction of an inch. The punch disturbed the air against Thomas's cheek.
Before Kyle could retract his arm, Thomas moved. Violence, true violence, is not a dance. It is not a trade of blows. It is a catastrophic overwhelm of the opponent's nervous system and structural integrity. Kyle expected Thomas to counter punch.
He expected a boxing exchange. Thomas bypassed the exchange entirely. As Kyle's jab slipped past his head, Thomas stepped sharply forward into the outside of Kyle's lead leg, cutting an angle that instantly blinded Kyle to his next movement. Thomas's left hand shot up. The rigid V of his thumb and forefinger driving directly into the soft cartilage of Kyle's trachea.
It wasn't a lethal strike. Thomas pulled it just enough to spare the man's life, but the impact crushed the air from Kyle's lungs and sent a shockwave of agonizing pain through his neck. Kyle gagged, his eyes bugging out, his hands reflexively dropping to his throat to protect his airway. He broke his own guard. It was the last mistake he would make.
With Kyle's hands down, Thomas seized his right arm, the arm that had just thrown the jab. Thomas didn't grab the wrist. He grabbed the meaty part of the tricep and the forearm, establishing a vicelike grip on the limb. In one fluid, violent motion, Thomas pivoted his hips, dropping his center of gravity. He used Kyle's own forward momentum against him, pulling the arm tight across his own chest while simultaneously driving his right elbow down onto the back of Kyle's shoulder joint.
It was an arm drag transitioning into a standing shoulder lock executed with the bone-breaking force of a man who didn't care if the joint snapped. Kyle screamed, a wet panic sound that tore out of his bruised throat. He felt the connective tissue in his shoulder popping, stretching to the absolute limit of catastrophic failure. He was forced to bend forward at the waist to relieve the pressure, completely exposing his flank. Thomas didn't let him tap.
Tapping was for the mats, holding Kyle bent over in the lock. Thomas drove his right knee vertically into Kyle's exposed floating ribs. The sound of the ribs cracking was like stepping on dry kindling. Kyle's scream cut off into a sharp, breathless wheeze. His legs gave out.
The pain was too intense, too sudden. His brain simply commanded his body to shut down to protect itself. Thomas released the arm. Kyle dropped to the concrete, curling into a tight, agonizing fetal position, gasping desperately for air that his bruised windpipe and broken ribs refused to process. He clutched his chest, tears streaming down his face, completely neutralized.
The entire engagement, from the slipped jab to the broken ribs, took less than 2.5 seconds. Thomas exhaled sharply, clearing his lungs. He didn't look at his hands. He didn't check to see if Kyle was okay. He simply pivoted slowly on his heel, turning his attention to the third man, Trent.
Trent was backed up against the rusted dumpster, his gym bag forgotten on the ground. He was shaking violently, his eyes darted from Brad, who was still unconscious and bleeding slightly from the mouth, to Kyle, who was writhing and sobbing on the freezing concrete. And finally to Thomas, the homeless man stood amid the carnage, his breath pluming in the freezing air. His heavy parka was slightly askew. He looked exactly as he had two minutes ago, yet fundamentally terrifying.
He hadn't broken a sweat. His breathing was still the slow metronomic rhythm of a man resting on a beach. Trent raised both his hands, palms out, backing up until his shoulders hit the metal of the dumpster. "Oh god! Oh my god! " Trent babbled, his voice cracking.
"Please, man, please. We're sorry. We were just We were just [ __ ] around. Please don't kill me. Thomas looked at Trent.
He looked at the absolute abject terror in the young man's eyes. Slowly, the military software began to shut down. The adrenaline receded, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. The ghost retreated back into the shadows of Thomas's mind, locking the iron door behind it. The arthritis in his knees flared up.
A sudden sharp reminder of his age and the cold. The chill of the Chicago wind cut through his parka once again. Thomas lowered his hands, his shoulders rounded. He looked down at the concrete. He walked slowly past the groaning Kyle.