Diamond Head Read Online Free PDF

you?”
    â€œFuck ’dis.” The driver shoved hard against my chest. I backed away from his hand and his momentum carried him. He tumbled onto hard-packed ground, landing on hands and knees.
    â€œCareful,” I said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
    The other young man came around the back of the Jeep,
carrying something in his hand. I watched him approach, my hands on my hips, mindful of the driver struggling to his feet.
    â€œDon’t get in over your head,” I warned the one coming at me. He held a short tire iron. His intentions looked far from peaceful.
    I’d already decided on aikido, a form of martial arts that has no attack, and I centered myself for what was to come. These two were young and probably had no experience in fighting, but I saw an innate meanness of spirit, too. They looked like they got through life by bullying whatever came their way. They looked as if another lesson in mean would not teach them anything they hadn’t already absorbed. One more ass-kicking more or less probably would not matter in the overall scheme of their lives.
    The one with the tire iron swung it overhead and brought it down where my skull had been. By the time it came full arc I was behind and beside him, catching his wrist in both hands, continuing the swing of his arm until he rolled onto his back. I released his hand before the shoulder broke, but twisted the weapon until it came free.
    I tossed it over the road into the sea.
    The one who had been in the driver’s seat was now on his feet, scrambling toward me.
    The passenger got up and clubbed at me, his fist traversing thin air. I assisted his turn, pirouetting him into his partner. They slammed together and sat down hard. It would have been comical had they not been so intent on caving in my head and stealing my vehicle.
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” I said as they got up. “Nobody’s been hurt yet. Let it rest.”
    â€œHaole fuck,” said the one who had used the pry bar, seemingly stuck on that one expression. He leaned against the side of the Jeep, feeling around the footwell, apparently looking for a weapon of some kind. The driver hung back, unsure, as if the fight was gone from him.

    â€œGo on home,” I told them. “Have a beer. No harm done.”
    â€œFuck you, haole.” Having found nothing, the passenger launched himself at me, both meaty hands grabbing for my throat.
    I moved to the side and let him run past. He stumble-stepped a couple of strides, tripped over his own feet, and sprawled onto his stomach.
    I turned toward the driver, but he backed away, his hands in front of his body to ward me off.
    â€œGo!” I shouted, taking a step toward him.
    He fled.
    Something hit me on the shoulder with nearly enough force to knock me down. I ducked as another baseball-size stone zinged by my head. A third kicked up a cloud of dust near my feet. The thief with the limited vocabulary and a propensity for hitting people with hard objects was pitching lava rocks at me as fast as he could pick them up. He had an almost unlimited supply where he was positioned, near the mouth of the cave.
    So much for good intentions.
    I charged into the barrage, zigzagging as best I could, avoiding most, but not all of the stones. One hit me in the chest and another staggered me when it glanced off my knee. As I neared, he abandoned the rocks and retreated into the cave. I followed, catching him from behind.
    Two blows to the side of his throat felled him. He collapsed, graceless as a sack of cement. I checked him for vital signs. He wouldn’t die, I had pulled my punches. I left him on the floor of the cave. It was cooler there, out of the sun.
    I retrieved the file and my sandals and went to the Jeep. It took about five minutes to repair the damage done to the ignition switch, and to realize I’d thrown my own tire iron into the Pacific. Before I left I checked the young man in the cave again.