Free The Frenchman's Revenge by Taylor Lee Page A

the wall his body at a right angle then flipped over backwards . W ith an audible crack, he drove his knee up hard in Alex’s ribs. Alex had heard of ancient warriors the monks c alled “ ghost fighter s ” who fought like flying phantoms . H e had never seen one , certain they had died out long ago . St unned , he realized that Bai was one of them .
    B ai’s elusive feints and parries made him virtually untouchable . U nlike Alex’s ineffectual kicks, punches , and strikes, every one of Bai’s assaults connected. He followed up his strike to Alex’s ribs with a devastating knifelike kick to his shoulder joint that paralyzed Alex’s arm, rendering it useless. When Alex backed away , trying to recover the use of his arm, Bai rose from below and drove a roundhouse kick to the small of his back , knocking Alex face first to the floor. Unable to get to his feet, Alex rolled across the floor , his hands to his face , tr ying to avoid the flurry of kicks Bai aimed at his torso. True to his word, Bai avoided his face , but there wasn’t an inch of Alex’s body from his ankles to his shoulders that escaped the blistering attack . Alex had never known this level of blinding, dizzying pain, so intense that he thought he might faint. Christ, dying would be a blessing. I n a few short minutes, to his horror , he put his hands up signaling “ enough . ”
    Bai nodded and stepped back , his fists curled lightly at his side s . He watched closely as Alex writhed on the floor , rolling from side to side , blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. Groaning and gasping for air, Alex struggled to stand , but gagged and fell back down to his hands and knees , vomiting a mix of bile and blood.
    Bai left the room and returned a minute later with a wet towel and threw it to the traumatized man on the floor. He reached down , offering his hand to help him up , but Alex shook his head , knowing he couldn’t stand.
    Alex used the towel to wipe off his face . W ith a groan , he hung his head and vomited again, this time more blood than bile. He refused to look at Bai . C ontinuing to spit out blood , he retched again and again , harsh heaves wracking his gut with a paroxysm of painful spasm s . He held the towel against his face and , with a fierce effort , m anaged to push himself up to a sitting position . He sat with his back against the wall , his breath coming in excruciating wheezes . He didn’t try to hide the tears on his face.
    Bai reached for his shirt and his boots. He put them on , then took his cigarette case out of the shirt pocket, removed a cigarette , and took his time lighting it. He smoked quietly , his face impassive, watching the man on the floor try to gain some semblance of control.
    Finally , his face wracked with pain, Alex looked up at Bai and shook his head with a mixture of chagrin and disbelief.
    “I thought ghost fighters died off five hundred years ago after Zhao Ming died , ” he muttered in a raspy voice.
    Bai shrugged. “I studied his journals.”
    Alex stared at him. He knew that the journals of the ancient S haolin monks were guarded like the emperor’s jewels . M oreover , they were written in a classic Chinese dialect no one had spoken or written for centuries. He shook his head again , unable to grasp what Bai was saying. After several minutes , he began to get his breath back . He glanced up to see Bai watching him , as if judging the extent of his injuries .
    Alex shrugged aside the concern in Bai’s eyes and groaned , looking down in amazement at the marks emerging on his body.
    “ What the hell was that you were doing to me on the floor? Christ , I have never seen anything like that in my life .”
    “ S omething I learned as a kid in the streets of Paris getting the shit kicked out of me . It’s called savate , essentially French kickboxing . After you’ve healed up , maybe I’ll give you a lesson or two .”
    Alex nodded , then gagged again spitting a fresh mouthful of blood in the