He changed the subject. “The man who attacked you at the hotel, you said that he was winning the fight? Assess that. Are we talking about superior combat skill or something else?”

“We were pretty well matched for skill and technique. It’d be hard to put a label on his fighting style, but he wasn’t trying anything on me that he hadn’t done a lot of times before. Everything was very smooth, very efficient.”

Church grunted his understanding. At a certain level, when you’re fighting to kill rather than trying to win a belt or a tournament, all style is stripped away in favor of a selection of techniques that are the most practical and effective at the moment. Experts who engage in these kinds of fights usually rely on a small percentage of the skills they’ve learned; skills that they know they can use, and which they can use without thinking about it. At that level a kick is a kick is a kick; a punch is a punch.

“What about enhancements?” Church asked.

“I don’t know. Nothing obvious, no exoskeletons or combat suit with joint servos. Nothing like that. He was faster and stronger, but the weird thing is that he didn’t have the bulk for it. This was way beyond the limits of ‘wiry strength.’”

“In the absence of the sniper, would he have won the fight?”

“Coin toss,” I admitted. “We were hurting each other, so I guess it would have come down to who wanted it more. I tend to want it quite a lot.”

“Fair enough.”

“On the other hand, let’s not rule out enhancement. Something chemical, maybe.”

“I wonder what Dr. Hu would find in a blood test. I don’t suppose you collected any—?”

“I didn’t take a cheek swab or get him to pee in a cup for me, but I have plenty of his blood on my clothes.”

“I’ll arrange a pickup.” He paused. “The attacker … gauge his strength. Use Bunny as a yardstick.”

“Twice as strong. Easily,” I said. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but that knight was a bull and—”

“Wait,” Church cut in sharply. “You just called the attacker a ‘knight.’ What did you mean by that? You didn’t mention that earlier.”

“Oh,” I said, and realized that he was right. When I’d blown through the story the first time I had called the attacker “the goon.” So I backed up and explained what Violin had told me.

There was a long silence on the phone.

“Describe the symbol Cyrus Omidi drew on the floor.”

“I can show it to you. The knight had it tattooed on his arm. I took a picture.” I fiddled with the phone and sent the e-mail.

I heard Church hitting keys to open the e-mail.

When he spoke again his voice was tight and urgent. “Captain, listen to me very carefully. Get out of that house right now.”