Free Darkness & Light by Dean Murray Page A

fight, and it would spell
death for one of us. Sadly enough, it was starting to look like I'd
be on the receiving end.
    Owens' hand and feet licked out with speed
that was almost impossible for even me to follow. They'd either
found a way to spread the stresses out over more of each anchor
point, or strengthen the individual bones. Whatever it was, only
the fact that he was down a hand was keeping me in the hunt.
    I slid out of the way of another neck shot,
and then saw my chance. As his arm recoiled back to ready position
I got my arm up to where I could slide my fingers along it as it
moved past. As you may recall my fingers are tipped with half-inch
long razorblades.
    That doesn't sound like much to most people,
but you'd be amazed at just how many fairly significant veins and
arteries there are just half an inch or so from the surface of your
skin. I guess there is one exception to that one strike rule. One
that oh-so-many of the operatives forget about. If I can bleed you
out, then you die even if I never manage to land a really solid
blow. I don't put up with half an hour of agony every day for
nothing.
    Owens' eyes suddenly got really big. I hadn't
managed to open up anything really important, but he was worried
now. He launched a flurry of attacks, one of which brushed the
outside of my thigh hard enough to leave a very spectacular bruise,
and then he let my wonderful razors get just a little too close to
the side of his neck and it was all over.
    Even though we'd been fairly quiet as such
things go, it would be a lost cause trying to hide the massive pool
of blood already spreading out from his corpse.
    So much for finding Croaker's chosen one.
Even in the out-of-the-way little corner where I'd ambushed him, it
was only a matter of time before someone stumbled upon the
body.
    I collected the briefcase and his gun, and
then made a quick trip to the bathroom to put my appearance back to
rights. Like I said, blood wipes right off of leather.
    I was on my way towards the back entrance
when I saw them. Actually I heard them first. My damn ears are only
second generation and sometimes they buzz until I reset them, but I
can still pick out a single conversation from more than forty feet
away.
    At first glance neither of them were really
all that remarkable. They were both slender, the taller,
dark-haired one slightly more muscled than the blond, but neither
of them were in the same class as the wannabe magazine model from
earlier. Still, their discussion was something else. It suddenly
made the vague hints start to click into place.
    “I'm telling you man, there's nothing out
there. Nothing. Science can explain away every phenomenon there
is."
    “I'm afraid I have to disagree with you yet
again. Science can explain many things, but not all. Otherwise
you'd preclude the possibility of miracles. I'm not saying that I
believe in the supernatural, far from it in fact, but I think
you've established yourself far too firmly in the secular with this
particular position."
    I let my hips sway a little more as I changed
my course and approached them.
    Whether or not I'd found Croaker's turning
point, the world's salvation, still remained to be seen. Either way
I was sure in the end they'd accept the bet, and in so doing
eventually find themselves in a world that bore little resemblance
to the one in which they thought they lived.
     
    Author's Note:
    "Backlash" was my first attempt to really
explore the technology in my 'Serial Story' world. I'd spent a
little time developing a bit of an overall story arc, and I'd
decided I was going to have super-human operatives, working both
for and against The Company, but I hadn't really settled on the
form that technology would take.
    At the same time, I'd just finished
spending a huge amount of time writing  Broken , and was gearing up for  Torn . I loved--still love--both of those books, but was
in the mood to write something much grittier. I could have, and
nearly did, turned to a Dark