Bronzeville || A Superhuman Tale - 2

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sam began the last of the painting in the mudroom near the back door while Tommy started lunch preparations. He would miss his friend when he departed later in the day, but they'd accomplished much in his time there. All of Summerall's people were in hiding or in the wind, and, despite the chaos, they'd even had time to train Lydia for several hours each day. Save for the last bit of painting, renovations on their home were complete, at least for the time being, and, best of all, Sam had been relieved of KP for two solid weeks.

There was no doubt something ugly was still on the horizon, but unlike last year, they would take their time and confront it as it came. Sam Babington was never one for quailing before hard tasks, and, one way or the other, they would get to the bottom of things.

The smell of whatever Tommy was cooking in the kitchen tickled his nostrils, but he needed to at least get a start on the mudroom.

Sam checked his ringing phone and answered after seeing it was a call from his former landlord, Mr. Buc. There were armed men at Sam's old apartment.

"I just thought you should know," said the darling old man.

***

Kenny nearly stumbled over her first three opponents, who spilled through the entryway in a bunch as she yanked the door wide, but her punch caught the fourth intruder in the middle of the chest. Despite the man's heavy body armor, the blow knocked him back with sufficient force that he flew against a companion, flinging both to the ground in a cacophony of curses, screams, and grunts.

The armored and helmeted men towered over her, but she'd come too far in the last year to be intimidated by mere size. And to her shock, the fear that scant moments before had dominated her every thought and filled her every recess deserted her, as if bolting for freedom through the now open door. A sudden glee consumed her.

Snapping about, she lunged toward the last man standing, who had a weapon at the ready. She remembered what she'd learned about guns and slapped aside the barrel of the short rifle, clasping it in one smooth move as she did, and yanked if from the man's grip as several rounds exploded into the wall beyond.

Rather than kicking or punching the interloper with her fist or foot, she followed with a fluid head-stroke to his nose. It was the precise manner in which she'd struck her near-indestructible teacher many hundreds of times, so this blow into the soft cartilage of her current adversary's nose, delivered with all her might, put the man back on his heels, with rolling eyes, and he slid into a heap against the wall.

As she rounded to confront the three men who had fallen past her into the apartment, she was not quick enough to dodge the butt of a rifle that struck her behind the right ear. The blow hardly tickled. Ducking and spinning about in another well-practiced move, she grabbed the nape of her assailant's neck below his helmet with both hands and, elbows pressed against his collarbones, shoved a hard knee into his groin.

The wretch squealed and gagged before hitting the floor, but by that time, Kenny faced his two companions, both of whom had scrambled to their feet inside the apartment's broad foyer. Neither attacker had their rifles at the ready—both weapons appeared to be twisted in the harness cords at the men's sides—but the nearest yanked free a pistol faster than she could have imagined and leveled it point-blank at her face.

Something deep in her almost wanted to scream with delight. The men's arms were large and their grips no doubt strong, but they were as putty compared to that of her regular sparring partner, and, despite Kenny being a mere five-foot four (or four-foot sixteen, as Cecil often teased), she was quicker and stronger than any of her attackers.

She twisted and dropped to avoid the pistol's line of fire, and in one motion grabbed the weapon and turned it back on the man. The soldier's knees nearly buckled, and he screamed at the pain of his now broken fingers and wrist. Maintaining her cruel and wrenching grip on that hand, she spun, stepped, and planted a front kick into the belly of the second remaining attacker. The unnatural power of that blow snatched the man from his feet and hurled him against the foyer wall, after which she yanked the pistol-wielder sharply toward her and, with her free hand, struck the still-screaming man hard in the neck. He dropped silent to the floor.