Stephen parried the blow with an upward sweep of his left forearm. The impact was like slamming into a car bumper, but he succeeded in knocking the fist off course. Even before their arms made contact, Stephen’s right arm sailed forward, the heel of his palm aiming for the spot between the nose and upper lip. A well-placed blow would cause incapacitating pain.
He never made contact.
As if time skipped a few beats, the killer was gripping Stephen’s wrist, stopping the locomotion power of his hand two inches before its target.
The assailant glared at Stephen, inches from his face. Stephen saw nothing in his opponent’s countenance but animal fury. Then the killer twisted his lips into what might pass as a smile in certain demonic circles and nodded. The gesture said Touche.
“We don’t have to do this,” Stephen said through clenched teeth. He knew they did, but deep inside, he remembered the last time he had battled; his conscience didn’t want to be here.
The assailant pulled down fiercely on Stephen’s arm, bringing his knee up at the same time, calculated to shatter the radius and ulna.
Anticipating the motion, Stephen swiveled his hips. The blow struck him hard on the thigh. Turning his defensive movement into an offensive one, Stephen swung his leg between them, then around his opponent’s side. He yanked his leg back. It collided with the killer’s leg, on which all his weight rested. His mind jumped ahead, working through the motions he’d make as his opponent hit the ground.
Which he never did.
Normally, a man will protect himself in a fall by swinging his arms toward the ground; but the killer never released Stephen’s right wrist. Instead, he used it to hold himself up and pivot around with the force of Stephen’s kick. Before Stephen realized what was happening, the killer’s back was to him, and he felt himself pulled by his arm over the killer’s head. He collided with the sidewalk. He sensed movement over him and rolled. The gauntlet smashed into the pavement where his face had been, kicking up rock chips and a quick plume of concrete dust.
If he’d kept rolling away, as his mind screamed at him to do, he knew his opponent would jump ahead, pin him, and kill him. Instead, he rolled back, grabbing hold of the killer’s arm with both hands. Before the killer had a chance to kick, Stephen hoisted his lower body into the air and planted a stunning blow with the tip of his boot into the top of the man’s head. Anchored by Stephen’s grip on his arm, the killer staggered …
Then dropped his knee onto Stephen’s forehead.
forty-two
Light swam back into his mind, forming itself into images: the building on his left, blue sky, white clouds, a flash of leg, and the killer standing over him, poised to bring his spiked fist into Stephen’s head.
Stephen swung his arm straight up, aiming for the clouds high above. He struck the killer between the legs.
The gauntleted warrior tumbled away.
Stephen rolled and pushed himself up. He kicked out, catching the man in the side. As the killer staggered back, Stephen lowered his torso and kicked his booted heel into his opponent’s sternum.
The killer flew backward into the bank’s display window, crashing through and disappearing behind a waterfall of shattering glass. A huge pane sliced down like a guillotine. An instant later, Stephen caught the full force of a roundhouse kick to the side of his head as the killer leaped over the glass-toothed sill. Stephen’s head snapped back painfully. He wanted to fall, to let the black cloud hovering at the edge of his consciousness engulf him and just… fall. Instead, he jerked his head upright and raged the black cloud away—just in time to see a saber-sized sheet of glass arcing on a horizontal plane toward his neck, blurring with speed.
He ducked.
The glass, clasped in the killer’s hands, disappeared in a screaming, dissolving collision with the brick that flanked the bank’s windows.
Stephen drove his head into the killer’s stomach and felt the pain of a fist gripping the hair on the back of his head. Rather than pull back, he pushed forward, knocking his opponent off balance. They both went down. As the killer hit concrete, Stephen somersaulted over him, using the momentum to tear his head away from the fist.
He felt like he’d been cracked on the back of the head with a lead pipe. He blocked out the pain; it was something he was getting used to.
He rolled away, tumbling out of the killer’s reach. On his feet, down for mere seconds.
The killer too—standing ten feet away, bent at the knees, arms out like an attacking wrestler. He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, ready. The man was tall, only slightly shorter than he was, maybe six foot four. At roughly 260 muscular pounds, the man’s proportions were similar to a body builder’s; he possessed none of the lankiness common among tall men. Through the unzipped opening of the black Windbreaker, a dark green pullover clung to bulging pectorals. Quick eyes watched Stephen’s every move.
Stephen sucked in a deep breath, then another. Sweat stung his eye. He tasted blood: a lot of it. A chill trickled down his spine as he realized the killer was breathing in the unhurried rhythm of a body at rest, barely perceptible in the shallow rise and fall of his massive chest. No perspiration at all. Just blood. Cuts and gashes and scrapes freckled the killer’s face and one visible hand … a hand that still clutched a clump of brown, bloody hair and what looked like—a piece of scalp.
The attacker raised his fist to examine his prize. He focused on Stephen and smiled.
“That’s gotta hurt,” he said in a strong voice, no trace of humor. He casually pushed the hair into the breast pocket of the Windbreaker, seeming to dare Stephen to retrieve what had been taken from him.
“Stephen!”
It was Allen, behind him some distance. Panicked, by the sound of his voice.
The killer glared.
“Run, Stephen!”
“Stephen, I can get him.” Julia’s voice, closer. Cool as a whole patch of cucumbers. “Move out of the way.”
He glanced back quickly. Julia was on the sidewalk right behind him, thirty feet—
“Watch—!” she screamed, and he dropped straight down, knowing what was coming. The gauntlet passed over him, so close he felt it stir the hair remaining on top of his head. He rolled into the killer’s legs, but the killer leaped away so fast it was as though he had never been there. Stephen swept his massive leg around, appearing to target his opponent’s ankles, but intending only to buy enough time to jump up.
When he did, he found the killer several steps away, nearly under the uncrushed part of the canopy that had cushioned Stephen’s fall.
The man moved to strike a blow to Stephen’s chest, but pulled away at the last moment.
Stephen kicked out, realizing too late that his assailant had feigned the punch to draw him in.
The killer caught hold of his leg, pinning it between the crook of his left arm and one of the poles that held the canopy frame. Stephen tugged, but he might as well have had his foot encased in the foundation of a building. He bounced on one foot, trying to keep his balance. He swung around to twist free, but the killer moved with him, countering his movements.
Pain fades in the heat of battle as the mind locks in on survival. But even a brief reprieve in the action can send it rushing back, as it did now for Stephen. His head felt cleaved, his shoulder savagely wrenched.
His opponent flashed that evil smile again, superior, unflinching.
As if in slow motion, the killer’s arm, spiked and rock solid, pivoted back, then surged forward. Stephen tried to bring his arm around to block the blow but missed. He twisted sideways and felt the crushing impact on his ribs. The air burst from his lungs. He hitched for air that wouldn’t come. Then he saw the killer bring his arm back for another strike. His enemy had been targeting his head all along; Stephen knew this one would find its mark, a blow he wouldn’t, couldn’t survive.
Then a gunshot rang out, sharp and close. Sparks sprang like fireworks from the pole in front of the killer’s face.
Step
hen was free, falling, crashing to the ground.
Another shot.
Vaguely he sensed someone running toward him, past him, stopping at his feet: Julia, gun in hand, taking aim. Someone else, Allen, rushed to him, tugging at his arm.
“Stephen! Come on, man! Let’s go!”
Allen straddled him, lifting him. Stephen felt all the pain in the world shatter his body. He growled more than screamed. Allen raised his palm, drenched in blood, and grimaced.
“Can you move?”
The question prompted him to try. Catching a rush of adrenaline, he rose, then staggered. Allen moved to his left side, slipping under his arm, and maneuvered him away from the canopy. Stephen gasped for air, found he could breathe again. Fire radiated from numbness on his left side, pulsing fingers of it reaching toward his heart, his head, making his legs weak.
But with each step, each breath, he felt stronger. He pushed away from Allen to stand on his own. He was shaky, still in pain, but otherwise okay—he thought.
It’d take more than that to keep this old fighter down.
He sensed chaos all along the block, people screaming and scattering at the sight of guns, others watching the action from behind cars. Somewhere in the distance sirens wailed. He turned. Julia was occupying the spot where the killer had pinned him to the canopy pole. Gym bag slung over one shoulder, she clutched her gun at the end of two stiff arms, aiming. He looked past her in time to see the killer peer around the corner of a recessed entryway two storefronts away. She’d managed to drive him away, but not far. Julia fired, and a brick erupted near the killer’s head.
“Go!” she yelled. “Go!”
A huge black gun sprang out from the entryway, turned toward them, spat smoke. Julia dodged to the left. Allen pulled at Stephen. Both spun and moved down the sidewalk, close to the buildings. The best Stephen could muster was a loping gallop. Allen moved in to help again, supporting and steering him.
At the corner, Stephen paused long enough to see Julia moving backward toward them, pistol poised. Then he and Allen were around the corner, into a different world where crowds didn’t gather to witness bloody battles. Halfway down the block, in the circular drive of the Marriott-Knoxville’s entrance, guests pulled luggage from their cars’ trunks. Taxis and private vehicles lined both sides of the street.
A shot rang out, and Julia rounded the corner, crashing into them.
“Move it! He’s coming!”
They bolted toward the hotel entrance, then Julia yelled, “Wait! Wait! Not there. It’s too obvious.”
She scanned the narrow stores that occupied this half of the block. All the shops carried expensive jewelry, clothes, and objets d’art. Their facades were all display windows and glass doors, which led no doubt into tastefully sparse showrooms; none looked like a particularly shrewd place to hide. Certainly they had back rooms, but not necessarily rear exits.
“The hotel!” Stephen rasped. “It’s the only way!”
“No, here!” Allen said, pointing at the curb.
“What?” Stephen asked.
“Yes!” Julia said. “Under the cars! Now!”
She dove into the space between two parked cars, pushed the gym bag under the front one, and disappeared after it. Allen shoved Stephen toward the car behind hers and shimmied under the vehicle behind that. Stephen hunkered down and slid into the narrow space. Something bit into his back, and he pushed closer to the asphalt, scraping his body along. He craned his neck to be sure his legs weren’t exposed.
Through the slim opening between the high curb and the car frame, he witnessed the killer’s head pop around the corner. Gone again. A second later, he swung into view, a silenced pistol extending from one arm. Failing to spot his quarry, he lowered the gun and stepped to the first display window. He moved to the next window, spinning around between the first and second to check the area across the street and down toward the hotel. He moved with fathomless agility, like water erupting from a fountain. He flowed past Allen, past Stephen.
A boy of about thirteen on a skateboard approached at top speed, the wheels of his ride clack-clack-clacking on the pavement seams. The killer’s arm shot out. He grabbed the boy by the shirt and lifted him off the skateboard, which sailed on without him.
“Where are they, boy?” the killer hissed into the teen’s face. “A woman. Two men. Where?”
“I … I … don’t know what you’re talking—”
He tossed the boy aside like dirty laundry. The kid tumbled on the cement, coming to a stop facedown. When he lifted his head, he was staring right at Julia.
forty-three
The boy’s eyes were huge. His mouth quivered, and she
was sure he would scream out.
She raised a finger to her lips.
The boy rotated his head a bit, saw Stephen under the car behind her. He swiveled around to look over his shoulder. The killer was glaring into a store window thirty feet away. He turned again to Julia, frightened eyes staring into frightened eyes. With a slight smile, he hopped up and bolted away from the killer, toward his wayward skateboard.
More man in that hoy than I thought.
As the killer made his way toward the entrance of the Marriott-Knoxville, Julia tried to anticipate his moves. Would he assume they took refuge in the hotel? Would the lobby area occupy his time long enough for them to escape? Or would he simply threaten the valets for information, as he had the boy? Perhaps this time with his pistol— picking off one to motivate the others.
Yes, she suspected that was his style.
Even if no one had seen them dive under the cars, the valets would surely convince him that the three hadn’t entered the hotel. He’d keep tracking them outside, eventually thinking to look under the parked cars.
So what to do?
A pebble bore into her elbow. She tried to push it away and knocked her head painfully on the car’s undercarriage. Something warm and wet touched her scalp—blood or oil. No matter …
He was almost at the hotel entrance. Could she bear to see him sacrifice a life in his search for them? No way. A threatening move was all it would take to push her into offensive action.
Images of last night’s firefight brought a dark cloud of pessimism to her thoughts. Acid roiled through her stomach, and her mind ached at the need to know how this man had survived, how he had come back. Even in the heat of battle, the perplexity of it pushed at her thoughts. Had last night really happened at all? Had she been hypnotized? Drugged? Was she going crazy?
Not now, Julia! she scolded herself. Focus. Focus on this killer— whoever, whatever he was.
He had turned from the window and was scanning the row of cars parked along the street, paying particular attention to the taxicabs closest to the hotel entrance. He stepped to the next store’s window.
She fished something out of a side pocket of the gym bag, then twisted around to look back at Stephen. The big man was absolutely packed under the vehicle. Bits of gravel clung to his beard, and a smudge of grease marred his forehead. His face expressed miserable distress. He spread his hands and opened his eyes wide, as if to say, What are we going to do?
She signaled him to stay put. Behind him, Allen was making emphatic hand movements at her, shaping his hand into the form of a pistol and jabbing it toward the killer: Shoot him! She gave Allen the stay-put signal as well. She crawled on her belly until her head was even with the front bumper. The car in front of her was a taxi. The killer had just stepped to the next store window when she made her move: she crawled out from under the car, staying low; then she turned onto her back and pushed herself under the taxi. A few moments later, her head popped out from under the vehicle on the street side. As she expected on this hot day and with the engine turned off, the cabbie’s window was down.
203
“Hey,” she whispered sharply. When there was no reaction evident in the elbow that protruded from the window, she tapped on the door. The elbow disappeared, and the car rocked a bit as the cabbie looked a
round.
“Down here!”
The door opened just a crack, and a startled face looked down at her.
“What the—?” he began, but she stopped him by displaying her badge and photo ID.
“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “I’m a federal agent.” She flipped her credentials case closed and raised the other hand, which held a wad of cash. “Take this, close your door quietly, and I’ll tell you what I need you to do.”
He hesitated briefly, then did as she had instructed.
While he was counting the bills, she whispered, “Don’t look my way. Just do what you were doing before I got here.” She lowered her head to see that the killer had reached the hotel and was scanning the area. She tucked her head under the car before a passing vehicle took it off. She whispered louder.
“Okay, listen. Give me fifteen seconds to get out from under here, then burn rubber outta here. Make a U-ie and haul down the street as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything—lights, traffic, anything. Got it?”
The whispered voice floated down from the cabbie’s window. “Lady, you only gave me forty-seven bucks.”
“It’s all I have. If you get in trouble with the cops, with your boss, the Bureau will straighten it out. All you have to do is push it for about five miles, and you’re forty-seven dollars richer. Deal?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen seconds.”
She backed away from the edge of the cab. Then she saw the killer and froze. He had a valet by the hair, bending him back and gripping his neck with a gauntleted hand. She knew too well what that felt like. She was reaching for her pistol when the cab’s engine roared like a waking beast. She moved away fast, banging her head on the muffler. She’d just rolled onto her belly and slipped back under the other car when the cab screeched in reverse, slamming into hers. Grime rained down on her. She wondered frantically if the cabbie had misunderstood or was trying to annoy her, then realized that he had to pull away from the cab in front of him to get out. The rear tires started spinning on the blacktop, generating an unbelievable amount of smoke and sound.
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