Page 32 of South of Nowhere

Another swing, and now Shaw dodged but remained in position, and parried with an open palm to the ear—a very painful blow that can deafen if done right.

The man grunted and winced. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” he said, and moved in again.

Shaw feinted forward, then when the tool swung, he dodged back and grabbed the handle. Bear—a good nickname, why not?—was expecting him to try to pull it away and leaned back ready for a tug-of-war. But Shaw did the opposite, pushing it hard in the man’s direction, throwing him completely off balance.

Bear had to turn to stay upright, which gave Shaw a chance to plant his sole behind the man’s knee, pushing hard. Bear went down on his back, but before Shaw could move in and get his wrist in a come-along—or, safer and more satisfying, simply break a bone or two—he rolled away surprisingly quickly. And leapt to his feet. He was in good shape for a man in his forties and overweight.

They circled for a moment.

Shaw tried again. Sounding almost comically reasonable, he gauged. “I’m serious. You going to tell me?”

Bear leered. This probably had some effect on tipsy or intimidated opponents. But to Shaw it revealed both that the man had no strategy and that he was growing uneasy, pulling out his psychological warfare chops, meager as they were.

The man tossed the shovel far away—played for drama, and a very stupid idea.

Never give up a weapon.

Then he came in fast. Shaw took a glancing blow to the cheek, the man’s knuckles landing near a scar left by a far more competent combatant.

The slug gave him the chance to clutch his face and groan, bending over. The script called for an “Oh, shit,” which he muttered convincingly, and he spat, as if he’d lost a tooth. And when the overconfident man charged at him, Shaw stood and delivered an open-palm blow to his unprotected nose. He felt a snap and stepped back from the gusher of blood. The curiously high-pitched howl was loud.

Snorting and wiping blood, enraged, Bear got ready for another charge.

The poor man didn’t have the benefit of Ashton Shaw’s rule:

Never fight from anger.

Shaw was looking around the area. The shovel was out of sight but he noted a branch about two inches in diameter, the size of a good cudgel, protruding from a tangle of brush.

He looked back to Bear, who noticed it too.

A beat during which neither man moved.

Suddenly Shaw took a few steps toward the branch. But the attacker lunged forward, driving Shaw back, and he leapt to where the weapon awaited.

He grabbed it.

But it didn’t move; its other end was stuck in the brush—as Shawhad noticed, and he’d decided to use its immobility as part of his tactic.

Bear had expected to rip it free, but pulling tugged his body forward, off balance.

Shaw’s father never taught the children any Asian martial arts. It took too much time to master—and was not always helpful in street fights, since opponents rarely play by the same rules. So he instructed them in grappling—a form of wrestling. (In the latter sport, Shaw himself nearly went to the Olympics. He scored points mostly from his lightning takedowns, though he was known to be a talented “rider” too, controlling the opponent and keeping him from escaping, which also added to your score.)

Shaw now moved in fast and caught him again in the back of his knee. This time he had leverage and the blow was harder.

Bear teetered—and Shaw executed a classic takedown, slamming the man onto his back. He rolled him over and gripped his right wrist in a come-along hold.

Bear struggled to escape but found himself trapped. This was a new experience, Shaw could tell. Bear most likely picked opponents who under weighed him and were easily intimidated.

Weight, of course, was only one factor in hand-to-hand combat. Leverage and surprise—and a working knowledge of human anatomy—counted more. For him to try to move now would result in broken bones.

“You’re dead,” Bear said.

How many times had Shaw heard that expression or a variation of it?

And yet here he still was.

On occasion, like now, Shaw was tempted to share that observation. Or quip: “You had your chance. Didn’t work.” But a rule he himself had coined came to mind.

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