The Infiltrators Read online

  The man’s windpipe collapsed, and then Zelven quickly lifted him up and smashed him down on top of his head.

  It was at that moment one of the man’s friends approached from Zelven’s right. Zelven stepped forward at an angle and sent the knife-blade edge of his hand flying into the man’s throat like a rock from a slingshot. He then grabbed the man’s left hand—which by this point had grabbed Zelven’s shoulder—and pinned it against his shoulder with his left hand while suddenly lassoing his right arm around the trapped arm.

  He then let go with his left hand and clasped his right. He then stepped backwards with his left foot and torqued viciously with his hips, ripping the man’s shoulder out of socket.

  He then swiveled back towards the man, bringing his knuckles against the back of the man’s neck in the process. He then punched him in the throat with his left hand, seized his throat, and then kicked his left leg out from under him with a vicious chopping motion with his own left leg. He slammed the man’s head against the ground, crushing his skull, and then immediately did a roll across the ground to avoid what he knew was an attack from behind.

  A club smashed into the stony ground, and the noise reverberated throughout the street as if from a nasty firecracker. A knife slid from Zelven’s wrist to the palm of his right hand quicker than a card into the palm of the most accomplished cheat.

  He blocked the large overhead swing by grabbing the man’s right wrist. He then brought his knife into the man’s bicep, slicing it to the bone. He then brought the double-edged knife up onto the other side of the man’s arm and pulled down viciously, slicing his tricep to the bone. He then quickly reversed the grip of the knife from blade up to blade down and brought it against the man’s throat in the same motion as throwing a hook punch.

  He gave a stiff sidekick to the man’s chest and avoided most of the ensuing blood geyser.

  Before him, he saw an emasculated, wide-eyed man sitting on the ground, pushing himself away, looking like a child trying to escape a belting.

  “I hope you’re more reasonable than your associates,” Zelven said calmly, tossing him a small bag filled with Smokeless Green. “The night’s still young, and there’s money to be made. You just introduce me to your customers and let them know there’s going to be a fifty percent discount sale all week.”

  The man nodded uneasily, his eyes still a quarter the size of the full moon above.

  Zelven extended his hand. “Let’s get to it!” he barked.

  The man grabbed it and stood up promptly, nodding but mute.

  Chapter 6

  “There’s a new ranch hand that’s been earning quite a name for himself,” Tim Sanders said.

  “They say he has his way with people no matter what the contest—boxing, sword play, wrestling . . . you name it.”

  “Well, it sounds like he might be a good man to consider for inclusion in the Ranch Guard. What do you think?” Righty inquired of his most-trusted rancher.

  “Usually, that’s only an option after a fella’s proven himself for several months, but I’ve gotta confess I’m itchin’ to see Halder—that’s his name—prove himself. And, if he can, then, yes, sir, I’d like him to become part of the Ranch Guard. I’ll make him one of the thirty contestants this afternoon.”

  “How long has he been on the ranch?”

  “Just a little over one month.”

  “How big has our Ranch Guard gotten to?”

  “A hundred and forty-five, sir.”

  “Well, let’s go have a look.”

  An hour later, thirty contestants lined up, looking like soldiers presented for close inspection. Righty walked down the line and eyed them all closely.

  “If I like what I see, I’ll pick the top ten of you.”

  Some nervous gulps ensued. It was well known that the Ranch Guard was the place to be if you wanted to move up in Mr. Relder’s organization. That was the name he was known by here, and although the original ranch hands had once known him by a different name—Richard Franklin Simmers to be precise—he had long ago told them that was an alias and that due to his growing trust in them, he was going to henceforth use his real name: David Relder, but “Mr. Relder” as far as they were concerned.

  He knew full well some of the ranch hands might rightly suspect his story was the inverse of reality, but they kept whatever suspicions they had private as far as he could tell, and even his konulans—who had been instructed to alert him anytime anyone on the ranch used the names Richard Franklin Simmers, Mr. Brass, or Righty Rick—so far had not heard one instance of these names.

  The ranch hands continued to stand straight and tall, but a few slight fidgets betrayed their eagerness to prove themselves. There were stories that those in the Ranch Guard earned several times the salary of the regular ranch hands—or even more—and there were rumors too that these men got to engage in action or at least would at some point in the future.

  Righty had Tim make the matches, since he was far more attuned to which would be the most even lineups for the opening bouts. The bouts were randomly chosen by Tim to consist of either sword play, grappling, or empty-hand striking. The swords were wooden, but close replicas of the real thing. Protective gear was used for these matches, and while Righty normally had empty-hand striking done with protective gear also, he ordered it off for these matches. If he was going to count on any of these men having his back, he had to know if they could take a punch, but he wasn’t interested in seeing any of them having their heads split wide open from the heavy wooden swords.

  If Righty had managed to survey the contests in an even manner, he would have been happy at what he saw. There were now hundreds—almost a thousand—men working on the ranch, and getting a job at the lowest level was no picnic. He depended on the original ranch hands for that. He had them scour rural communities for men that were tough as nails, but honest workers, enticing them with double the wage they could earn anywhere else.

  From there, everyone became an aspirant to the Ranch Guard. Tim and the other original ranch hands did a good job of watching the men’s nightly combat classes and picking the best to vie for the chance at the Ranch Guard.

  But Righty was unable to recognize the overall high level of martial prowess that was beginning to emerge in this laboratory of violence. Because from the moment he saw Halder move, he was as enthralled as if he were twelve years old again watching Jason Sevden thrash Harry “The Cat” Beld. It had been said that no one could hit Harry The Cat, because his damn reflexes were like lighting rubbed down with oil.

  But Jason’s powerful legs had enabled him to sprint after the rascally Cat and douse him with body blows, something The Cat’s quick head movement did little to mitigate. The Cat had been carried from the ring looking like a cat that had a head-on collision with a wagon wheel, and it was at that moment that Righty’s passion for body blows and explosive leg movement had been born.

  Boxers at the gym laughed as he sprinted at the bag from eight to ten feet away. But there was one who didn’t—Coach Ryler.

  Here, kid; you wanna build up your sprintin’ muscles, you better add a little resistance.

  The next thing young Richie knew he had a rope tied around his waist, and a twenty-pound bag of sand attached to it. Undeterred, Richie had charged and charged at the bag, telling his brain there was no weight behind him and that he had to run faster and faster.

  By the time he was starting to earn a name for himself—in his mid-teens—he was regularly sprinting at the punching bag dragging a hundred pounds of sand behind him. Once that rope was untied, and he charged at the bag “naked” (as he often put it), he sometimes looked like a blur to the other fighters gaping at him uneasily in the gym, fearing that at any second they were going to hear Coach Ryler barking that it was there turn to spar with Righty Rick.

  But Righty now found himself thinking that not even Jason “The Legs” Sevden (as he became known after laying waste to The Cat) could have so much as laid a finger on Halder’s head.

/>   It was like one second Halder was there, and the next he wasn’t. Righty watched beautiful, technically sound jabs and crosses whistle by Halder’s head, as he moved just ever so slightly out of the way—so slightly it seemed as if he wasn’t moving at all, as he appeared to never move one millimeter more than what safety required.

  When his opponents tried their luck with body shots, he did odd-looking blocks with his forearms. It looked like what Coach Ryler used to call “Fancy Stuff.” No Fancy Stuff was ever allowed his gym, but Righty was aware of a few people at his school who had practiced it. He had gotten into a fight with one of them, and while to this day he still couldn’t be sure whether he had perhaps antagonized the classmate into fighting just so that he could see how much Fancy Stuff was worth in a real fight, what he did find categorically proven was that Fancy Stuff didn’t work in a real fight.

  The classmate had blocked one punch, but as soon as Righty began throwing fakes he quickly worked his way around the classmate’s blocks and hit him wherever he wanted. Righty had hit him with around ten percent of his normal power, since the fight was more of an experiment—at least in Righty’s mind—than an actual fight, but when the classmate had landed a shot to Righty’s nose that drew blood, Righty responded with a body shot that cost his adversary a month of school.

  Righty had never given Gicksin any serious thought after that and considered his coach’s summary of it as Fancy Stuff to be more than adequate.

  But here, in this place, at this moment, if long-since-deceased Coach Ryler had been here with Righty, they would have shared an intense moment of disbelief. Halder’s blocks hit his opponent’s arms with enough force to practically end the fight all by themselves. He could see the brave fellow wince in pain every time the curious Halder slammed the blade of his forearms into the incoming arms of his pugilist opponent.

  And even when his opponent threw quick combinations of punches, Halder delivered his series of blocks with so much speed and grace it looked like nothing but a series of blurs emanating from the catlike figure. Coach Riley had always taught Righty that those fancy blocks were never good except when going against street thugs who threw wild, looping punches and explained that against technically sound punches only evasive movements with the head and feet and covering movements with the forearms would do any good.

  But beyond even these amazing feats there was something else that caught Righty’s attention, though it was only a hunch. It seemed evident to him that Halder could at any point devastate his opponents with a single punch, and yet he only delivered light punches while putting on this spectacle of speed.

  Next up were the grappling matches. Once again, Righty had tunnel vision and kept his eyes peeled on Halder. The opening match practically floored Righty, as Halder’s aggressive opening was like nothing Righty had ever seen.

  Halder ran up to his opponent, jumped up into the air, wrapped his legs around his head, brought him to the ground, and simply stood up and walked away. Had Righty not seen Halder’s earlier magic, he would have yelled at him to go back to his opponent and keep fighting or to get the hell off his ranch and never come back. But, prior magic show still in his mind, Righty awaited curiously to see what happened.

  The man on the ground was motionless. Tim walked up to him and looked closely and then put his hand under his nose. He gave a thumbs-up to Righty and then lifted the poor fellow’s legs up in the air. About fifteen seconds later, like a man emerging from a deep sleep, he looked around him and struggled to make sense out of what had just happened.

  “You okay?” Tim asked.

  The man nodded uneasily, got up, and walked towards the combatants who had been eliminated, looking ashamed.

  “I’m next,” Righty announced, catching not only Tim but himself completely off guard, and immediately wishing he could go back in time and take back those words. But while he did have a bird the size of several eagles put together that could fly him a day’s journey in a matter of minutes and a large army of konulans that could perform the surveillance duties of ten thousand spies, a time machine he did not have.

  “You’re the boss,” Tim said, shrugging.

  Halder looked at him calmly, his gaze betraying neither arrogance nor fear. Not even curiosity could be seen. His eyes were impenetrable.

  “Even the chef’s got to get into the kitchen,” he said, immediately questioning whether his attempt at humor made sense.

  Halder smiled lightly.

  As they faced off against each other, Righty found that while he had not lost his apprehension about facing this enigmatic ranch hand, he had at least lost regret. Though there was no time for deep analysis, subconsciously he wondered whether he had been watching some kind of fraud in progress and felt he had to experience this man’s skills for himself.

  Righty had never considered himself a natural at wrestling, but his regular sword practice sessions with Pitkins had included empty-hand techniques for quite some time, and Righty was slowly making progress at grappling.

  He lowered his stance considerably, which Pitkins had taught him to avoid leg attacks. But after what he had seen happen to his predecessor Righty wasn’t so sure Pitkins’ lessons were going to do him much good.

  As Halder came towards him and Righty reached out for him, only to grasp a handful of fresh, empty air, his mind was unable to even slightly comprehend the dizzying movements that followed, but his subconscious turned briefly to tales he had heard as a child about seafaring folks.

  It was said that at sea—which took many months by land to reach, out to the east of Selegania—there was a creature that would sometimes grab a net full of fish being lifted and hitch a ride up to the deck. Once there, though slightly smaller in its torso than a human, it would begin attacking everyone on the ship with its large number of rope-like legs that it could flick away from its body rapidly like a whip or lasso around its prey and drag them towards its bloody mouth.

  There were stories of powerful men attempting to overcome the beast, but in vain they grabbed at its legs only to find themselves grabbed by its free legs as it wrapped around and encircled them, rendering them all as helpless as children against an angry lion.

  When Righty had grasped empty air, Halder had rolled onto the ground in front of him in what looked like a silly, foolish position, but before he knew it, Halder was in a different place, his feet acting like hands, grabbing Righty’s legs wherever they willed, while Halder’s equally dexterous hands assisted his legs, and the next thing Righty knew the man was out of sight.

  His first clue as to where the magician had gone came when Righty felt himself being elevated up into the air. The next clue came when he felt himself falling backwards and falling right on top of the man.

  Before Righty could even momentarily appreciate the fact that he at least knew where his opponent was he felt a death grip around his neck, surely worse than that of the tightest noose.

  He was sure he would soon be choked unconscious or perhaps killed right then and there in front of his many ranch hands, who looked up to him tremendously. Ignominiously, he would die at the hands of this demon who had crept out from some hole Kasani knew where—or perhaps was an assassin sent by some rival drug organization he had not even heard of. Not even Harold would have a chance of plummeting from the sky quick enough to prevent the poisonous serpent with which he had so foolishly chosen to interact.

  But before his mind could torment him any further he heard a calm whisper into his ear. The speech was rapid, but Righty caught every word: I needed to get your attention. We talk in private afterwards. Now, escape and beat me.

  It took more than a second for Righty to process what he had just been told, and while he had always reviled faked outcomes, he didn’t feel he was in much of a position to argue with this man.

  Righty quickly began attempting an escape, something that just seconds before would have seemed the height of folly. He could hear the man grunting and gasping—perhaps as a show of effort—but at the same t
ime the death grip had softened. Righty grabbed the man’s forearm, pulled it down, and began moving towards the choking arm’s thumb, as Pitkins had taught him to do from that position.