Free The Final Storm by Jeff Shaara Page B

gap, the space, the target. He saw the man glance away, toward his own corner, and Adams jumped, no time for thought. He sent the left out in a sharp curl into the man’s ribs, heard the grunt, the man’s gloves coming down slightly, helpless reaction. Adams saw the opening, moved with perfect instinct, rammed a short hard right hand to the man’s chin, opening his mouth, twisting his jaw, a spray of blood coming off the man’s wounded lips. The man bent low at the waist, staggered back into the ropes, another glance toward his corner, seeking … 
help
. Adams dropped his arms for a quick second, flexed slightly, fighting the stiff pain, the exhaustion in his muscles. The man was shaking his head, blinking hard, scrambled eyes, trying to focus, and Adams saw the flash of fear. The man pulled his gloves up to his face, feeble protection, and Adams was there, ignored the one weak jab, the man’s last desperate punch. There were no more feints, no dancing, the man still against the ropes, and Adams moved closer still, his eyes on the man’s chin now, made a quick short step to the right, and in one motion turned into the man, driving his right hand past the man’s left, a compact bolt of lightning against the man’s exposed jaw. The left followed, a tight upward swing, but there was no target, only air. The tall man had gone down, crumpling into the ropes, rolling over onto his back. Adams leaned low, ready, his arms cocked again, the anger spilling onto the fallen man, words in his brain, get up! I’m not done! Theman still held his hands up in front of his face, pawing the air, but there was nothing else, blank eyes, his brain off in some other place. Adams was breathing heavily, felt a hard arm across his chest, pulling him away. He turned, furious, cocked his right again,
I’ll kill you, you bastard …
but the distractions came, his brain letting go, a green shirt, the referee, holding a steel grip on his shoulder, the referee’s other arm waving, shouting the words, “Seven … eight … nine …”
    The hand released him, and the sergeant was there, hands on his shoulders, a happy grin, a flood of words through stinking breath. The sounds engulfed him, and Adams glanced around, beyond the small roped-off square, saw hands in the air. A hundred Marines were standing, wild eyes and wide smiles, cheers and shouts, all directed at him. He began to feel his fists relaxing, the agony of desperately tired arms, sniffed through blood in his nose. He tried to escape the sergeant’s breath, looked for his victim, saw him sitting slumped on a short-legged stool, tended to by a corpsman. Adams pushed that way, through the arms of the sergeant, saw the beaten man staring down, still unseeing. Adams stopped, nothing to say, saw blood on a towel, another corpsman coming through the ropes, words … 
broken jaw
.
    He felt a hard slap on his back, the sergeant pulling him toward the ropes. Adams stopped, resisted the man’s grip, looked out at the Marines, not as much cheering, their attention drawn away to the next pair of fighters. He saw them coming up close to the ring, towels on their heads, the boxing gloves laced up, ready, the next act in the show. Adams tried to feel the joy, victory, but the dull soreness in his arms was taking over, the blood clogging his nose. He bent low, the sergeant helping him through the ropes, stepped down off the plywood, the single step to the steel of the deck, a towel now wrapping his shoulders.
    “Nice job, kid. Like to see you take on Halligan next. Thinks he’s a tough guy. You can loosen a few teeth in that big damn mouth.”
    Adams looked toward the sergeant, saw confidence, businesslike, and then a corpsman was there, cotton in the man’s hand.
    “Hold still, Private. Let me get you cleaned up.”
    Adams didn’t protest, felt the sergeant working on his hands, removing the boxing gloves, while the corpsman stuck something into Adams’s nose, cleaning out the