CHAPTER FIVE #2
Three men stepped out of the shadows, coming to stand between them and their vehicle.
They were dressed in dark clothes, and the low light rendered them featureless.
Even so, Tudor took in the angle of their shoulders, their height, their strength, the collective threat they presented.
He cursed himself for not having noticed them before Emily had.
Instinctively he reached out to pull her close.
As he did so, a sound made him turn, but too late.
The first he knew of the man behind them was the short whooshing of the baseball bat as it swung through the heavy air.
He felt it connect with the back of his head, heard the sound of its impact even as his knees folded under him.
To the accompaniment of Emily’s scream, he fell forwards, his face meeting the unyielding tarmac unprotected.
As he lay there, unable to speak or move, he could only watch what happened, helpless and powerless.
The assailants, leaving him for at least unconscious and more probably dead, focussed their attention on Emily.
He wanted to scream at her to run, but even if he had been able to, it was already too late.
And Emily knew it. She wielded the trophy, holding it out in front of her as a lion tamer might, wheeling round, trying to keep all the men in sight while keeping them at bay.
Tudor knew she would be sizing them up, working out who was the leader, who was likely to present the greatest danger.
He could only lie there and pray that she would keep her cool and draw on her training.
The first thing she did, showing good sense, was to yell for help.
‘Somebody call the police!’ she shouted. ‘Help me! Over here!’
But no help came. They were out of earshot of anyone who might have come to her aid.
Emily saw this, and Tudor saw this realisation on her face, his heart breaking for her.
The first man made his move, leaping forwards to grab hold of the trophy.
For a moment Emily held on but he was too strong and snatched it from her, casting it aside.
As he did so, the second man grabbed her from behind, his arm around her neck, beginning to rob her of air.
She would have been quickly overpowered if she hadn’t remembered her dad’s training.
Holding her nerve, she tucked her chin down and in, so that the assailant’s arm was prevented from exerting all its force on her throat.
Summoning her strength and determination, she did exactly what Tudor and Bob would have trained her to do, lifting her right foot and stamping it down the attacker’s shin, the force of the strike finding its end on the bridge of his foot.
This should have been painful enough to make him release her.
With astonishment, Tudor heard a crack and the man’s scream, telling him that the move had been so forceful she had broken the bones in his foot.
As he released his hold, crumpling forwards, Emily grabbed his arm, using the momentum to throw him forward over her shoulder, sending him crashing onto his back.
Two of the other men rushed at her, but she was expecting them.
In a move full of grace and power, she used a back snap kick to the belly to stop one, turning through a crescent kick to the shoulder of the other.
Again, the sound of cracking bone split the night.
Even in his disabled state, Tudor gasped, not quite able to believe what he was seeing.
This was not simply a talented young martial artist using her skills to save herself; this was something more.
The attackers tried again, the one with the baseball bat rushing her, all brute force and blunt male rage.
Emily side stepped, turning to grab his arm as he tipped beyond her, off balance.
With frightening speed and a cry of fury she used her other hand to break his arm with a single, perfect blow.
The fourth man was taking no chances, pulling a knife and getting in close before she had a chance to regroup.
Again, she was grabbed, this time a body lock, by the larger man who she had temporarily stopped with a kick to the guts.
He made the most of his size advantage, pinning her arms. In front of her, the remaining attacker moved towards her with the knife held in a deadly professional grip.
Tudor fought to regain his senses, silently screaming, summoning all his strength not to slip into the abyss of unconsciousness.
Emily struggled, so that he feared she had lost the cool head that was keeping her alive.
He had no idea what these men wanted, but if it was to kill them both, there was little to stop her assailant driving his knife home at that moment.
Tudor groaned, finally able to make a sound, and then the smallest of movements.
If he could reach down to the small back-up gun he kept strapped to his ankle, even with very little strength, wounded as he was, he could surely fire off a shot to buy Emily some time and maybe a crucial advantage.
The thought flashed through his mind that his Glock was no use to him locked up in an evidence room back in London, but that even if he had been carrying it, he doubted he would have had the necessary strength to take it from his holster and fire it.
The 380 auto on his ankle was more use to him now.
With his vision blurring and pain shooting through his head, he forced his hand to move.
But it was taking too long, his actions were leaden and hopelessly slow.
Emily let out a cry, but it was not, as he had feared, a cry of panic.
It was a mustering of her energy, a true ki-up.
With a whip fast movement she delivered a perfectly aimed backwards head butt to the face of the man who held her, breaking his nose and sending him reeling.
In a heartbeat, she executed a forward snap kick, connecting with the remaining mans forearm.
It was his choice of grip that resulted in the knife gashing his own torso.
The man with the damaged foot had found the baseball bat and now stood up, hobbling but dangerous, about to swing at Emily while she was still facing her earlier attacker.
At last Tudor pulled the gun from its strapping.
Using both hands he tried to aim it at the attacker, but his grip was weak and he could not hold it steady.
He dare not risk taking a shot at any of the attackers for fear of hitting Emily.
Instead, he aimed into the sky and let off two rounds.
The man with the baseball bat turned, his hood down now, the light of the nearest street lamp illuminating his face.
Tudor didn’t recognise him, but there was something else that was familiar.
Something about the darkness beneath the eyes, the paleness of his skin, the blueness of the veins at his temples and throat, the wild, almost animalistic look on his face, that rang a distant, discordant bell.
‘Oi! What’s going on?! Leave them alone!
’ Bob came running from the building, quickly followed by two men from the leisure centre, while another dialled on his phone.
The attackers fell back. They helped each other to their feet and fled, limping and cursing, disappearing through a small gap in the fence.
Tudor heard a car engine start and the sound of people running towards him, voices raised in alarm.
And suddenly, there was Emily, kneeling beside him, peering down at him, her expression desperate.
‘Dad! Oh my God, Dad!’ When he attempted to get up she stopped him. ‘Don’t move. It’s OK. They’ve gone.’
‘Pumpkin, you were…’
‘I’m OK.’ She yelled over her shoulder. ‘Call a fucking ambulance!’
Tudor ignored her protests and struggled to his knees. He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You were bloody fantastic,’ he told her.
‘I thought you were…’ She moved to examine the back of his head and then looked at him, confused. ‘There’s no blood, nothing. The way he hit you, I thought he’d broken your skull!’ She paused, and then went on, her voice cracking. ‘I thought he’d killed you, Dad.’
Tudor managed a wonky smile. ‘You know I’m made of tougher stuff than that.
’ He took a steadying breath, searching for the right words.
Before he could think of any, Emily fell forwards into his arms, sobbing against his shoulder.
‘Hey, shhhh, it’s OK now, Pumpkin. You’re safe. They were no match for you, eh?’
‘Who were they? What did they want? They didn’t ask us for money or anything. Why would they attack us like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.’
The Black Mountains, Wales 1085