Mike
Cain stripped to the waist after handing me a pistol, a Glock. I liked a heftier weapon, like a.45, but at that moment I would have been happy with a peashooter.
The Russian kept grinning like a wolf and it took every ounce of self-control not to unload, but I sent a prayer to the Lord for strength and remained true to my calling. Besides, I’d already killed a man that day and that was burden enough-more terrible than I could explain.
Boris stripped off jacket, tie and shirt, revealing a massive torso covered in black hair. Scars crisscrossed skin stretching tight over great slabs of muscle that moved like greased ropes. Black tattoos, Cyrillic characters, covered shoulders and belly. He looked like a fair-skinned gorilla with a bad attitude.
In contrast, Cain looked puny, almost skinny, but almost anyone would next to Boris. If you took a close look, you could see the sharp definition in Cain’s muscles.
Then he took his sunglasses off. I longed for a rosary but had to be content with crossing myself. It was driven home to me that this man was the Cain, the first murderer. Off-white, slightly blue irises centered with pitch-black pupils. A cold shiver ran up and down my spine, matched by the freezing wind entering the suite.
Cain started removing his boots and that’s when Boris attacked, leaping like a gazelle, great fist slashing forward toward Cain’s skull.
It never connected.
If it had, Cain’s neck would have no doubt snapped like a twig, but the tall man had simply flickered as if he had been edited from reality for a moment. The knobbly fist swished past Cain’s nose by a whisker. Boris almost overbalanced, but righted himself quickly. That didn’t stop Cain from taking advantage. One long arm shot out and tagged Boris on the nose, a tap, or so it seemed.
Blood gushed from the big man’s nostrils and he recoiled in surprise. Clearly getting tagged was a rare experience for him. He licked the blood from his lips and waded in, fists and feet flying.
Cain didn’t give him a chance to score. Moving like mercury across a plate, he rolled and slipped everywhere, always one step ahead of the increasingly furious Russian. Every now and then he’d throw a jab-nothing painful, but after a couple of minutes they began to tell. Boris started to slow, his own jabs becoming more and more wild and unfocused as rage and exhaustion began to take their toll.
“Stop moving!” he yelled, face red with fury, spit flying from his lips.
Cain did, his smile unwavering, and spread his arms wide. An invitation for Boris to do his worst.
The two stared at each other for a few tense moments; Boris, harried, wild, and Cain, calm, collected. “You fight good,” Boris panted, unfazed by the other man’s eyes.
“I’ve had time to practice,” replied Cain almost amicably, lowering his arms.
Boris nodded and casually placed his hands in his pockets. “Why should I fight, then?”
“Because if you don’t-”
Swift as a snake, one of Boris’ hands whipped out, holding a knife. Before Maggie and I could blink, the blade sprang free with a hiss, flying faster than thought toward Cain’s throat.