As Drake’s eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he noticed just how many Marauders there actually were. Close to forty thugs surrounded the brothers; hanging from the crane, jumping off cars, all hooting like a pack of gibbons and swinging their weapons.
A few strategically placed men stood acting as sentries, covering the Mandibles with rifles, well out of shotgun range.
Drake dropped his MP 40 and put his hands above his head.
The leader, now wearing a long red robe and several large gilded chains as he stood astride a battered old monster truck, raised a hand for silence.
“Well, if it isn’t the proud little warrior,” boomed the leader. “You even brought a friend to share your curb-stomping.”
The brothers said nothing, but stared defiantly at the leader.
“Malcolm used his free call to warn me that you were on your way tonight, so we could plan a little welcoming party for you.”
Drake mentally kicked himself for not taking this into consideration.
“I took down your friends, I can take you too,” he said coolly.
The leader chuckled.
“Yes, that was pretty impressive, beating them all like a drum, especially Tito. But now it’s your turn.”
The Marauders started up their chanting again.
A narrow-faced, thirty-something man stepped forward and indicated that he wanted to talk to the leader. The man looked out of place among the younger hooligans. He dressed like a greaser, straight out of a 50’s film: leather jacket, white tee-shirt, powder-blue jeans, slicked-back hair and all. A veritable walking anachronism. After a brief discussion, the leader silenced his gang again.
“Johnny here wants to take first crack at you,” the leader said. “You shot his brother in the chest yesterday, now he’s in intensive care with four fractured ribs.”
Drake noticed how the Marauder neglected to mention that he’d been the one to use the brother as a human shield.
“Since Johnny’s my right hand man, I’m gonna let the two of you duke it out, Mano-e-Mano."a
An appreciative roar from the gang as Johnny stepped into the open area, opposite the Mandibles. a
“No guns and no interference, last man standing wins!”a
Two Marauders relived Drake of his tranq gun, shotgun and auto-revolver, but left the truncheon. Another two dragged Jake off to the side and pinned his arms behind his back.
The two combatants circled each-other.
A sudden glint of steel and Johnny had a switchblade in his hand.
Drake unfolded his truncheon and gave a few practice swipes, before settling into a solid stance.
He’d expected a few crass remarks from his opponent, but Johnny remained silent and focused.
Soon the rest of the gang followed his lead, watching eagerly.
Jake was the blade expert of the family, guns being more Drake’s forte, but he tried to remember what his brother told him about knife fighting. It was important to try and gauge the opponent’s level of skill, whether they stuck to offense or preferred defence and which hand they favoured.
He saw that Johnny was proficient by the way he twirled the blade back and forth, occasionally changing hands, indicating that he was possible ambidextrous.
Drake could feel the piercing gaze of his opponent and knew that he was doing the same thing.
Pushing any errant thought of failure out of his head, Drake focused on slowing down his breathing and keeping his heart-rate steady.
“BEGIN!”
Next Week: Drake duels Johnny the Greaser, but how will our hero fare against an opponent who fights dirty?
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