Gilver exploded
into a frenzy of kicks and punches, each delivered with a
precision Tony had never before encountered. It was all
he could do to ward off the blows. Each glancing impact
contained enough raw fury to warn that a direct hit would
shatter bones.
“Hey, you're pretty good, newbie.” But Tony's
voice lacked its characteristically sarcastic tone.
The mercenaries watched as Gilver drove Tony
backwards across the bar, step by step. Finally, he landed
a clean hit. After two decoy high kicks to the head, he
planted a toe in Tony's lower gut. Tony reflexively
tightened his abdominal muscles and crossed his arms to
guard himself, but it was too late.
“Argh!” Tony flew back and tumbled clumsily
along the floor, crashing into a table leg. The impact
upturned a jug of beer, which showered over his silver
hair. “You bastard! That's some kick you've got there.”