Frank rolled to his feet and saw …
A flash of motion, as Mockingbird landed on the walkway in front of him, several dozen paces away. The sway had been caused by her landing.
He drew one of his knives and raced towards her, intent on stopping her cold before she realised he was there.
He almost made it, his first strike sending her scrambling backwards, nearly stumbling. Her batons came up in front of her, trying to make a barrier between them.
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)