The door didn't last a second. I hit it low with my shoulder, the reinforced wood giving way with a hollow crack. The hinges tore free and the slab of it skidded across the polished floor like a kicked shield.
"Hakeem Odoro. YOU ARE TERMINATED!"
Hakeem Odoro shot up from the bed, a big man gone soft around the middle, his eyes wide and unfocused in the dim light. His wife gasped, sitting up and fumbling for the lamp on the nightstand.
I didn't give either of them the luxury of a second breath. My boots hit the carpet and in the same motion I launched forward, covering the distance in three steps. The mattress sagged under my weight as I came down on top of Odoro with a driving stomp to the gut — not enough to kill, but enough to fold him like a cheap chair and knock the air out of his lungs.
He tried to sit up and swing an arm. I caught the wrist, pivoted my hips, and hurled him off the bed with a clean shoulder throw. He hit the floor with a flat, ugly thump.
The wife screamed. Artemis vaulted in behind me, expression flat as a blade. "I've got her," she said, calm as you like, and in one smooth motion delivered a precise strike to the side of the woman's neck. The scream choked off into a sigh; the woman slumped harmlessly back into the pillows.
I didn't even glance over. My attention was fixed on the man on the floor, who was gasping and trying to push himself up to his knees.
I moved in, crouched, and hooked his arm, rolling my shoulder under his center of mass. A classic seoi-nage throw — his body flipped over my hip and slammed to the rug again. The breath went out of him in a wet grunt.
He tried to crawl; I caught him by the collar and hauled him upright only to drive him down again with an osoto-gari leg reap. The impact rattled the bed frame.
He wheezed and swung again in a panic. I shifted weight, hooked his arm, and rolled him straight into a shoulder-lock pin. He kicked. I let him roll halfway out of it just to take his momentum and hurl him in a full-on wrestling belly-to-back suplex that bounced his skull off the carpet.
He groaned. I dragged him up again by his belt and shirt collar, turned my hips, and executed another throw. He hit flat on his back. The man was built like a bull but fought like a cornered ox — no technique, just thrashing.
Somewhere behind me, Artemis' voice was dry. "You planning to redecorate the whole bedroom with him?"
"Maybe," I said, shifting my grip to clamp a hand around his throat. "Depends how many throws it takes to get the point across."
I pivoted again — this time a classic kata-guruma, the fireman's carry throw — and sent him over my shoulder so hard the boards under the rug creaked.
He tried to rise again on all fours. I stepped in, hooked both arms under his, and locked my hands behind his neck in a tight full-nelson. A twist and a heave — he went airborne and landed face-first.
"Stay down," I advised, voice still steady.
His answer was a strangled pained curse. I answered that with a tight waist-lock, lifted, and drove him down in a double-leg takedown. Then I shifted again, dragging him up into a brutal but controlled German suplex that left him groaning and almost limp.
I knelt beside him, caught his wrist, and in a single controlled motion flipped him to his stomach and wrenched his arm up behind his back in a judo ude-garami shoulder lock. The warlord howled — finally.
"So. Arty — I kept the restraints clean and not much blood's spilled. Rate it." I grinned over my shoulder. I was practically enjoying using Hakeem Odoro as my personal judo and wrestling dummy. "I rarely do the bloodless fights anyway."
Artemis rolled her eyes but didn't bother to answer. "Just don't break the floor. We still need him conscious."
I gave the warlord one last hard pin — then shifted my stance.
"Alright," I said to my unwilling sparring partner, "playtime's over."
His eyes bulged as my fingers clamped over his jaw, the heel of my palm pressing up beneath his chin. I hauled him off the floor like a piece of cargo, his legs kicking weakly for balance.
"Up you get," I muttered.
Odoro's hands scrabbled at my wrists. I could feel his jaw working beneath my grip, trying to shout, but all that came out was a strangled rasp.
I tightened my hold and gave his head a sharp twist to the side — not enough to kill him, but enough to make his jaw pop and leave him screaming through his hanging mouth. The fight drained out of him in an instant, his arms dropping limply to his sides.
"Yeah," I said quietly, almost conversational. "You're done."
Keeping my hold on his face, I shifted my stance, sliding one leg back and dropping my weight as I dragged him in.
"Consider this a warning," I said, voice steady.
Then I drove him down across my knee in a controlled, punishing slam — the kind of professional back-breaker that jars the whole spine without spilling a drop of blood. I felt the solid weight of his torso bow over my thigh, the muscles of his lower back momentarily locking before giving way in a shudder.
Odoro let out a low, strangled groan as the shock ran up through his lumbar vertebrae. His shoulders hunched, his ribs compressed inward, and for a second his arms flailed weakly before dropping as his spine refused to answer the command.
I let him slide off my knee and crumple to the carpet. His breathing was ragged, the rise and fall of his chest uneven, and the strong-man's straight posture he had carried all his life was gone — his spine curved slightly, his torso hunched as though it were remembering the impact.
The warlord who had starved villages into submission now looked like nothing more than a dazed, beaten man.
I straightened, brushing my palms together, and looked over at Artemis. She stood there with her arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Still conscious," I said. "As requested."
Artemis tilted her head at the slumped figure on the floor. "Barely. You always have to add the dramatic flourish?"
I just gave a small shrug and turned toward a polished liquor cabinet tucked into the corner of the room.
"Gotta have something for the grand finale," I muttered.
I opened the cabinet, found a crystal decanter of amber liquor — the expensive kind — and uncorked it.
As I walked back toward the gasping man on the carpet, Artemis shifted her stance but didn't move to stop me.
I poured the liquor over Odoro's chest and shoulders in a slow, deliberate stream. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the room.
I pulled a lighter from my pocket, flicked the cap open with my thumb, and let the tiny flame dance between us.
"Hasta La Vista, Baby"
Flick.
A/N
[Power Stone Please]