Read Or the Bull Kills You for Free Online

The edge of his mouth caught the cement as he turned, however, and he felt the skin of his lip tearing. A kick bore into his stomach in the second that he lay still, the first of more he sensed were to come. He retched, but before a second kick landed he was up on his knees and scrambling to his feet, lifting himself up with his hands and jerking away from the direction of the attack so as to get back upright. Never stay on the ground. In a normal street fight it paid to stay vertical.
    Gripping his stomach with his left hand, breathing deeply to clear his head, he saw three forms darting around him, preparing to strike again. Despite the darkness, they were under the direct glow of a street lamp and Cámara could almost see their faces. Instinctively, he crouched slightly, rounding his shoulders and lowering his weight into his hips and thighs. Prepared.
    The first one came in with a swinging haymaker punch. The dropped shoulder, the grimace, the arc of the fist as it started low around the hip and closed in on his face. Cámara blocked it easily with his left wrist and drove the knuckles of his right hand into the man’s throat with a straight, short stab. A little too hard, perhaps. As long as he could still breathe once he hit the ground. Break the trachea and he might have problems.
    One down, two to go.
    The second attacker, enraged at seeing his colleague on the ground gasping for breath, came in next, charging with a kind of war cry and lunging with both arms as though reaching for his face. Cámara just managed to twist out of his way in time, spinning on his heel and feeling the man’s breath on his skin as he brushed inches away. Then he chopped down with his right arm on the man’s outstretched arms as he sailed past, tipping him off balance and forcing him to the ground, where he tripped and crashed his chin against the edge of the pavement. There he lay motionless, emitting a low, sobbing groan.
    Cámara quickly looked around for the third, wondering what he would do, but already he appeared to have thought better of it and taken flight, his footsteps echoing as he raced round the nearest corner, out of sight.
    The taste of blood from his split lip distracted Cámara’s attention for a second. He placed his hand to his mouth and felt the cut. Not too bad, he thought, but it would make him a bit of a sight for a couple of days. The bottom of his ribs ached from the kick to his stomach, the pain spreading from his solar plexus round and up his back to his shoulders before shooting down his arms and finally into his groin.
    â€˜Hijos de puta.’
    He heard a sound. The second attacker had managed to get back up on to his feet and was speeding away as fast as he could, barely able to keep a straight line as he staggered and hopped his way down the street, his hand to his chin, spitting as he reached the corner before he, too, disappeared from view.
    It was over. Like so many fights, it had barely lasted beyond the first exchange of blows. Only professionals could make them continue for any length of time.
    Cámara bent down to look at the first attacker, still lying on the ground with his hand to his throat. The man was motionless, his eyes wide open, staring at him in fear and pleading, his breathing steady but difficult. He’d be OK, Cámara thought, but would need some attention fast.
    He shook himself as he got up to walk away, his hand gripping the throbbing in his stomach. In the circling chaos of his thoughts it was clear that they had gone for him deliberately. Any number of people had reason to have a grudge against him: people he’d put away; friends and relatives of people he’d put away. It was one of the reasons why so many policemen lived outside the city, in anonymous estates and tower blocks near the beach. Cámara had never joined them, refusing to give in to fear.
    He wondered about these three, though. Others might simply have knifed him and have done