Sacrifice Read Online Free PDF Page A

fingertips out.
Ki
to
Ki.
    The hair on my forearms stood straight up from the fallout.
    Max slid forward into a slight open crouch, rolling his head on the column of his neck. The fat man waggled his fingers, still into his stance, waiting. Max stepped forward as if walking on rice paper, working his way into the zone. He moved to his left, testing. The fat man's hips were ball bearings—he tracked Max, locked on to the target.
    In the space between two heartbeats, Max dove at the fat man's feet, twisting into a perfect forward roll even as the fat man flowed backward—too late. Max was on his back, both feet piston–driving in a bracket at the fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.
    It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike–point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken—Max had pulled the shot.
    They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again—held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance—if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.
    I was proud of the lie—so proud to be his brother.

17
    N obody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.
    The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a "come on" gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.
    In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.
    I made a "what's going on?" sign. He held up one finger. Patience.
    We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon landed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.

18
    I stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty–blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands—they looked up.
    Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.
    "Thank you, Max," Lily said. "Right on time."
    "What is this?" I asked Lily.
    She ignored my question. "You know Storm, right, Burke?"
    "Sure." Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.
    "You really want to know?" Lily asked Storm. "You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this."
    Storm nodded.
    "Show him," Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.
    I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. "This is the hand you write with?" I asked her.
    "Yes."
    I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.
    "It'll be a girl," I told her.
    "Good!" Storm said. Then: "Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making