in his right hand, and with his left he shrugged off the cloak. But for a small flax kilt he was naked beneath, muscular and smooth. His face was cleanshaven, and handsome except for a long scar on his left temple. He looked down at Mat, and then stepped over him, crouching, both hands now on the wooden weapon—which Mat could see now was a long wooden club—a traditional Maori taiaha.
Donna and her cronies stared in amazement at the newcomer, but Tattoo raised his knife and closed in. Donna reached inside her jacket for her gun. Mat looked down at his hands, expecting to see them blackened by fire, but they looked normal. He tried to stand and nearly blacked out.He slumped again, and watched Tattoo lunge at the warrior like a striking snake.
The young warrior blurred into motion, and the taiaha flashed across and down, cracking over the wrist of the knife-hand. Tattoo howled, and his knees gave way. The taiaha swept back up and the carved handle smashed into Tattoo’s mouth, splattering blood and teeth in an arc as the man collapsed. The young man didn’t look back, but danced forward and leapt at Beard. The suited thug cocked his arm back and hurled the knife at the young man’s chest. The taiaha swept across and batted the knife aside, and then the young warrior planted the club’s head in the dirt and pivoted, so that his foot struck the side of the thug’s head, and knocked him sprawling. Before his foe could recover, the taiaha flashed again, a two-handed up-swing that connected with the bearded throat and the man collapsed thrashing and choking, both hands clutched to his neck.
Donna backed off to the BMW, her sunglasses falling off to reveal pale slitted eyes. She held a small gun but seemed on the point of flight. But Pockface pulled up a squat-nosed weapon and went into a shooting stance. The crack of the gun echoed and the flash dazzled Mat’s eyes. Kelly screamed, and so did Mat. The warrior staggered, then straightened with a groan. Pockface’s jaw dropped and he fired again, and again. The warrior stumbled again, but kept coming, without so much as flinching. The wet sound of the bullets hitting flesh was sickening, but he gave a bitter laugh, and advanced, taiaha poised.
Donna backed away and slid into the BMW driver seatand fired the engine. But Pockface didn’t panic, despite his round-eyed horror. Instead of continuing to fire at the young man, he swung the gun at Mat, and yelled, ‘Stop or the boy dies!’
Mat froze. The muzzle of the gun looked appallingly big. Kelly shrieked, Fitzy barked…and in a blur the taiaha swept up and the gun flashed.
There was a sickening crack as the taiaha struck Pockface’s wrist, an instant before the gun fired, knocking it aside so the bullet ripped past Mat’s head to strike the back of the VW with a thud. The gunman’s hand hung askew, bone piercing the skin of his wrist. He howled, and then the backswing of the taiaha smashed into his jaw and he crumpled sideways.
Donna buried her foot to the floor. The BMW spun and skidded on the gravel, then the tyres bit, and it roared out of the rest area and spun away south. Suddenly the only sound for three long seconds was the trickling stream, and the dying echo of the gunshot.
‘Mat?’ called Kelly. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Mat, staring at the warrior. The young man stalked about the three fallen men, bending over each in turn. Tattoo and Pockface were unconscious, their faces a scarlet mess, but Beard was writhing, horrible gurgling noises rising with bloodied bubbles from his mouth. The young man smashed the hilt of the taiaha into Beard’s temple, and he rolled over, motionless. Mat looked away, sickened, yet relieved. He’d never pictured real fighting as being so violent, and so messy. The computer games he’d played were all so… clean. He crawled over to Kelly and hugged her and Fitzy, and tried to shut the scenes he’d witnessed out of his head.
Everything was still, as if
Donna and her cronies stared in amazement at the newcomer, but Tattoo raised his knife and closed in. Donna reached inside her jacket for her gun. Mat looked down at his hands, expecting to see them blackened by fire, but they looked normal. He tried to stand and nearly blacked out.He slumped again, and watched Tattoo lunge at the warrior like a striking snake.
The young warrior blurred into motion, and the taiaha flashed across and down, cracking over the wrist of the knife-hand. Tattoo howled, and his knees gave way. The taiaha swept back up and the carved handle smashed into Tattoo’s mouth, splattering blood and teeth in an arc as the man collapsed. The young man didn’t look back, but danced forward and leapt at Beard. The suited thug cocked his arm back and hurled the knife at the young man’s chest. The taiaha swept across and batted the knife aside, and then the young warrior planted the club’s head in the dirt and pivoted, so that his foot struck the side of the thug’s head, and knocked him sprawling. Before his foe could recover, the taiaha flashed again, a two-handed up-swing that connected with the bearded throat and the man collapsed thrashing and choking, both hands clutched to his neck.
Donna backed off to the BMW, her sunglasses falling off to reveal pale slitted eyes. She held a small gun but seemed on the point of flight. But Pockface pulled up a squat-nosed weapon and went into a shooting stance. The crack of the gun echoed and the flash dazzled Mat’s eyes. Kelly screamed, and so did Mat. The warrior staggered, then straightened with a groan. Pockface’s jaw dropped and he fired again, and again. The warrior stumbled again, but kept coming, without so much as flinching. The wet sound of the bullets hitting flesh was sickening, but he gave a bitter laugh, and advanced, taiaha poised.
Donna backed away and slid into the BMW driver seatand fired the engine. But Pockface didn’t panic, despite his round-eyed horror. Instead of continuing to fire at the young man, he swung the gun at Mat, and yelled, ‘Stop or the boy dies!’
Mat froze. The muzzle of the gun looked appallingly big. Kelly shrieked, Fitzy barked…and in a blur the taiaha swept up and the gun flashed.
There was a sickening crack as the taiaha struck Pockface’s wrist, an instant before the gun fired, knocking it aside so the bullet ripped past Mat’s head to strike the back of the VW with a thud. The gunman’s hand hung askew, bone piercing the skin of his wrist. He howled, and then the backswing of the taiaha smashed into his jaw and he crumpled sideways.
Donna buried her foot to the floor. The BMW spun and skidded on the gravel, then the tyres bit, and it roared out of the rest area and spun away south. Suddenly the only sound for three long seconds was the trickling stream, and the dying echo of the gunshot.
‘Mat?’ called Kelly. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Mat, staring at the warrior. The young man stalked about the three fallen men, bending over each in turn. Tattoo and Pockface were unconscious, their faces a scarlet mess, but Beard was writhing, horrible gurgling noises rising with bloodied bubbles from his mouth. The young man smashed the hilt of the taiaha into Beard’s temple, and he rolled over, motionless. Mat looked away, sickened, yet relieved. He’d never pictured real fighting as being so violent, and so messy. The computer games he’d played were all so… clean. He crawled over to Kelly and hugged her and Fitzy, and tried to shut the scenes he’d witnessed out of his head.
Everything was still, as if
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