Castle charged forward like a bull. He knew that if he stayed out from her again he was going to pay for it. He pulled one of his knives, not wanting to be barehanded against her.
He had to get close, grapple, use his body weight to get her down, hold her down. He didn’t need to keep her there, just to keep her occupied long enough to finalize his agenda. If he had to stick her in the leg or even the side, he’d do it.
Mockingbird knew that too, of course, and was having none of it.
There was no more banter, no more grins. They were both fighting to win this now.
Her batons flared like a hummingbird made of razors, slashing the air in front of him. He wasn’t letting up — moving forward fast and hard, charging and feinting.
She had to back and back again, on the narrow constricting walkway, her batons occasionally striking sparks off the metal railings. He had the advantage here and he pressed it, ducking and weaving like a prize fighter.
Not that he was unscathed. In the first couple of passes, she broke his left hand when he unwisely reached out; he felt at least three fingers smash. On another pass he narrowly missed getting his head cracked open, getting back from her in time that the edge of her baton merely slashed open his cheek to the bone.
On a third pass he opened up her left palm from her middle finger to nearly her wrist with the knife.
She staggered back from him, baton flying to clang onto the ground below, blood splattering around them.
Frank, his own blood soaking the front of his shirt, reached around behind his back and pulled out…
Oh, this is never a good sign (Go to 13)