Rain Fall by Barry Eisler

cloth. A nice setup for ippon seonagi. But he’d be expecting that. Instead, I swept in hard for sasae-tsurikomi-goshi, spinning inside his grip and tensing for the throw. But he’d anticipated the move, popping his hips free before I’d cut off the opening and blocking my escape with his right leg. I was off balance and he hit me hard with taiotoshi, powering me over his outstretched leg and drilling me into the mat.
    He threw me twice more in the next five minutes. It was like fighting a waterfall.
    I was getting tired. I faced him and said, “Jaa, tsugi o saigo ni shimasho ka?” Shall we make this the last one?
    “Ei, so shimasho,” he said, bouncing on his toes. Let’s do it.
    Okay, you bastard, I thought. I’ve got a little surprise for you. Let’s see how you like it.
    Juji-gatame, which means “cross-lock,” is an arm-bar that gets its name from the angle of its attack. Its classical execution leaves the attacker perpendicular to his opponent, with both players lying on their backs, forming the shape of a cross. One permutation—classicists would say mutation—is called flying juji-gatame, in which the attacker launches the lock directly from a standing position. Because it requires total commitment and fails as often as it succeeds, this variation is rarely attempted, and is not particularly well known.
    If this guy wasn’t familiar with it, he was about to receive an introduction.
    I circled defensively, breathing hard, trying to look more tired than I was. Three times I shook off the grip he attempted and dodged around him as though I was reluctant to engage. Finally he got frustrated and took the bait, reaching a little too deeply with his left hand for my right lapel. As soon as he had the grip, I caught his arm and flung my head backward, launching my legs upward as though I were a diver doing a gainer. My head landed between his feet, my weight jerking him into a semicrouch, with my right foot jammed into his left armpit, destroying his balance. For a split second, before he went sailing over me, I saw complete surprise on his face. Then we were on the mat and I had trapped his arm, forcing it back against the elbow.
    He somersaulted over onto his back and tried to twist away from me, but he couldn’t get free. His arm was straightened to the limit of its natural movement. I applied a fraction more pressure but he refused to submit. I knew that we had about two moremillimeters before his elbow hyperextended. Four more and his arm would break.
    “Maita ka,” I said, bending my head forward to look at him. Submit. He was grimacing in pain but he ignored me.
    It’s stupid to fight a solid armlock. Even in Olympic competition, judoka will submit rather than face a broken arm. This was getting dangerous.
    “Maita ka,” I said again, more sharply. But he kept struggling.
    Another five seconds went by. I wasn’t going to let him go without a submission, but I didn’t want to break his arm. I wondered how long we could maintain our position.
    Finally he tapped my leg with his free hand, the judoka’s way of surrender. I released my grip instantly and pushed away from him. He rolled over and then kneeled in classic seiza posture, his back erect and his left arm held stiffly in front of him. He rubbed his elbow for several seconds and regarded me.
    “Subarashikatta,” he said. “Excellent. I would request a rematch, but I don’t think my arm will allow that today.”
    “You should have tapped out earlier,” I said. “There’s no point resisting an armlock. Better to survive to fight another day.”
    He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “My foolish pride, I suppose.”
    “I don’t like to tap out, either. But you won the first four rounds. I’d trade your record for mine.” He was still using English; I was responding in Japanese.
    I faced him in seiza, and we bowed. When we stood up he said, “Thank you for the lesson. I’ve never seenthat variation of juji-gatame executed