Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Breath hard and tight, Gage paused; clip empty, gun and night hazed in smoke. Frowning, he scanned the gloom. Echoing silence; a ringing stillness.

  Gage glared through the wall of blue smoke, his arm still extended with the slide of the weapon locked back. He suddenly heard — Sarah was screaming. Had been screaming.

  He hugged her with his right arm, whispering to her.

  "Shhh..." he said softly in her ear, keeping his eyes on the shadows where Sato had leaped. She was quiet instantly, rocking slightly, holding the bloody bandage on her face.

  Gage heard the steps, somewhere in the forest, Sato moving away quickly, deeply inside the cover of trees. Cold and enraged, Gage ignored the retreating steps and turned to Kertzman, who seemed to hear them as they approached. He lifted his head as they came closer.

  Gage saw the thick, bloodstained portion of his shirt, a deep chest wound; a knife wound. Other slashes, glistening wet black, were visible through the heavy arms of his coat. His knee was slashed open and there was a long shallow wound on his forehead.

  Kertzman struggled to speak. "Came up ... behind me," he gasped, as Gage laid Sarah down beside him. "He ran off as you got here." He coughed blood, continued, "Got me good ... and he got the book." He groaned sickly, leaning over.

  Gage caught him with his left arm, his right arm still supporting Sarah. Grimacing at the weight, he pushed Kertzman back against the stone.

  "It's alright, partner," Gage whispered. "You did good. Nobody could 'a done better."

  Kertzman leaned his head back, rolled it from side to side. "Got excited," he gasped. "Forgot to burn the rest of the book when the shootin' started. Came in ... Had to take out Radford. But the priest got away."

  "Doesn't matter." Gage gazed down at Sarah. She was still, slowly gaining more control within her shock. Sadly, she lifted her face to gaze at him with one visible eye.

  Suddenly, Gage heard frantic shouting near the Catacombs of Priscilla. He turned, staring into the darkness at the widening beams of a dozen flashlights bouncing in the night. Men ran forward, an army of men.

  Italian police.

  He looked down softly at Sarah, touching her face. "They'll take care of you," he said. "They'll take care of both of you."

  He released her, turned toward Kertzman. "Listen careful, Kertzman. Make sure that they know right away that you are a United States federal agent! Tell them Sarah's a kidnap victim and a federal witness! Do you hear me? You are an American federal agent and this is State Department responsibility! You got it?"

  "You bet," said Kertzman numbly, and then his massive head turned, face silvery with sweat, dark with blood. "Are you goin' after him?"

  Gage nodded and stood, backing away.

  "Be careful," Kertzman said weakly. "He won't stay down. You're gonna have to kill him."

  Gage nodded again. "I know."

  Sarah watched him sadly and struggled a moment, rising, slowly gaining balance to stand, unsteadily, on her feet. Hesitating in his stride, Gage watched her. In the silence he looked past her, saw flashlights charging frantically in the distance, measured their approach; 30 seconds. He gazed down, smiled faintly, sadly. Turned away.

  "Gage," she gasped, a choked cry.

  Gage hesitated in a single, ghostly stride.

  Their eyes met.

  "You can’t show mercy,” whispered Sarah. “Not with him.”

  Gage turned away.

  "I know.”

  *

  FIFTY-TWO

  Wind at his back and thunder overhead, Gage ran through the night, breath hard and fast, searching. By mental reflex, by training procedures driven into his subconscious, he knew where Sato would go, just as he knew where he would go if he were evading, obeying the rules.

  … Get clear of the area fast ... Break the perimeter ... Take the quickest escape route ... Move as fast as possible before you find concealment …

  To the east! Towards the Via Salaria, the eight-lane street that ran past the park, 200 yards to the right. Has to be!

  To the west was the park and forest, a mile of woodland that could easily be encircled and searched; to the north, more forest, miles of it. A natural trap. Sato would move for the street, would try to break the perimeter of the park as quickly as possible, get clear in the city.

  Without breaking stride Gage slipped like lightning under a low-hanging branch and in 30 seconds heard the traffic of the streets. He broke through the trees, slammed in another clip, chambered the automatic by dropping the slide.

  He entered a field, instantly dropping low, scanning. He was on a hill that offered a good sweeping view of a half mile to the north and south. Immediately he caught sight of Sato running toward the ravine that separated the park from the street itself.

  Gage descended the hill on a parallel course, 100 yards between them, knowing Sato would try to find transportation.

  Sirens blaring, three police cars drove south on the Via Salaria, not noticing his approach out of the darkness. Then he was at the ravine as Sato climbed the slope in the distance and entered the street.

  Gage splashed through the ditch and then he was climbing the slope, tired now, breath heavy. He barely made it the final few strides, slowing, climbing, groaning in exhaustion. Finally he hit the middle of the street, turned to see a commotion ...

  Sato stealing something – a van!

  Gage spun, his arm lashing out in an iron clothesline tackle, carrying the motorcyclist off the back of his bike. They tumbled together into the street, a chaotic mass and rolling.

  A roar somewhere north, a gunshot.

  "Move!" Gage shouted, pushing the young Italian who wanted to fight until he saw the Browning. In a second Gage was on the bike as a van roared down the street, wild and rushing.

  Gage looked up, saw the dark familiar face, and gunned the bike, gaining the sidewalk as it swerved after him.

  Missed!

  Gage spun the bike and then he was pursuing, the Hi-Power in his belt, heading south into the city. Gage accelerated the bike, gaining on the van. He pulled alongside, but Sato swerved towards him and he veered to the left as a vehicle passed wildly between them.

  Use it!

  Gage accelerated the bike hard and came in at a sharp angle on the van, pulling the Hi-Power and leaning low.

  Beyond fear, in that combat zone where everything is slow and real beyond ordinary clarity, he was beside the van again. He aimed low, firing continuously at the left front tire of the vehicle, and in a shredding explosion of tire and wheel, the black twisting mass lashed toward him while the van's gray wheel struck fire from the cobblestones over a thunderous black shape twisting.

  A rolling, chaotic crash exploded beside him and Gage hit something, lost it. The bike skidded on the wet street. He struggled a split-second and then laid it down. The van passed behind him, across his tracks in a revolving, shattering mass and the bike disintegrated before him against stone and black rain, storm.

  Seconds of skidding, rolling.

  Rolling, slowing.

  A stunned stillness.

  Gage heard himself groaning.

  Oh... man!

  Stunned, Gage turned over. He was torn everywhere and smeared with mud. Numbly, mind struggling violently to reorient, to focus, he struggled to stand, not taking time for wound assessment. It didn't matter now as long as he could finish this.

  Straining for breath he looked toward the van. Sato was staggering away, clutching his forehead while holding something large, black ... the manuscript ... in his hand.

  Gage stumbled forward numbly, brain beginning to find itself beneath the shock.

  "Sato!" he shouted.

  The Japanese turned a moment, hesitating, his face an angry mask. Gage moved another step. Then Sato turned away, running with a slight limp. Gage glanced around. The Hi-Power was gone, lost in the darkness. Could be anywhere. No time to search. He moved forward in a gathering run that slowly turned into a sprint. And then Sato, also, was running.

&n
bsp; Into shadows.

  Gage had no idea of direction, no idea of street, but he couldn't worry about it. He was beyond procedures now; he was at the top of the plateau, where there were no rules. No rules but those he made for himself.

  Sato ran and Gage followed, pursuing at an even pace and an even distance of 50 yards. It was a miler's pace, fast but not sprinting, the strides long and strong, bouncing but not pushing with the energy that burns out legs in an explosive sprint. It was a pace Gage could hold for four minutes, maybe six.

  The last street Gage could remember, the Via Salaria, was far behind them as they merged into the darkness of side streets, running left down an alley, right, taking another deserted street and then another alley, the chaos of the intersection fading quickly.

  Gage stumbled over something low on the sidewalk and crashed painfully to the ground. He rolled again with the impact and then, gaining his feet, he was up but Sato was lost from sight.

  Breath blasting, Gage ran.

  Black shadow breaking shadow ahead.

  Shouting in rage and frustration, Gage leaped forward. The distant movement was too quick to be anything other than what it was; Sato still running straight but with at least a 100-yard lead.

  Gage increased his pace as much as he dared and immediately felt the heaviness begin, the lactic acid buildup in muscles. He couldn't hold it for much longer, knew Sato had to feel the same.

  He's human ... He's hurting as bad as you ... Keep the pressure ... He'll break!

  Steady, no weapon drawn to weigh down his hands, Gage held the violent pace, pumping his arms to keep a tiring stride; breath racking him in spasms, side stitched with a piercing pain, body soaked in sweat, groaning.

  Step by step.

  Stride, stride, run him down! ... Hold a long pace that he can't match ... Keep him in sight ... He'll break!

  Gage stared ahead through widened eyes. He saw nothing, no movement.

  Gone.

  He broke stride while still moving and tried to focus more clearly on the darkness ahead.

  Nothing.

  Breath steady, he continued to hold his speed until he came to the place where he had last caught Sato's image.

  Alley to the right.

  He scanned. There was no other path for escape.

  Crouching, Gage moved into the alley. Moving quickly and slightly sideways to present a narrower target and in seconds he had reached the end; a gate stood marked by two tall, wide wooden doors, black in the night. His fighting rage heated by the run, Gage glared angrily up the smooth wall. He saw only level edges of night sky, an unbroken ridge of flat building. No outlines.

  He turned. Nothing was behind him.

  Sweating, breath burning his throat but adrenaline burning his blood, Gage leaned for a second against the door, eyes focused on the bolt that secured it.

  He looked closer, slowing a hard breath, expelling it deeply and then drawing another, trying to slow his heartbeats. Sweat blinked in his eyes and hot perspiration soaked his leather coat. He felt lightheaded. And then he saw the sharp gleam on the bolt, a smooth mark, glistening with a silvery sheen.

  He reached out, felt.

  Cut. It was cleanly cut; the steel bolt at least a quarter-inch thick had been cut cleanly in half by a single, slashing blow.

  Gage leaned back against the door, breathing heavily, and drew the only weapon he had left. Closing his eyes, gathering, he held it across his chest, the 14-inch knife comfortingly broad, heavy, unbreakable with cold strength.

  His breath frosted in the night air; warm and streaming. He focused, holding the black micarti handle of the Dragon in a familiar grip, a natural grip. The blade was heavy but it felt weightless.

  Cautiously Gage reached out, pulled the door open. He went through fast, crouching, moving sideways with the blade held high and close, scanning.

  Inside, it was almost completely dark. But at the distant wall stood a wide, gray altar, the crucified Christ staring down from above.

  It was a basilica, a sanctuary. He was inside a deserted cathedral. Gage waited, concealed within the shadow of a marble column. He looked to the single source of light and saw the shadowy figure standing before the crucifix. Waiting for him.

  The Japanese stood fully in the light, casting his own darkness. And Gage stepped out, instinctively searching the shadows on the left and right for an ambush, but knowing he would find no one.

  There was just the two of them. As it was meant to be.

  Slowly Gage walked forward.

  Sato tossed the manuscript behind him, onto the altar. He smiled and raised the murderous tanto. Arm fully extended to hold the blade horizontally, slightly beneath his eyes, his gaze passed over the edge to focus on Gage.

  Face impassive, Gage came closer.

  In normal combat a master knife fighter would never reveal the location of his weapon before he struck; it was his advantage. And, as a rule, a master would never relinquish an advantage. Yet Sato was boldly displaying the tanto, brandishing the blade in an ancient escrima salute not seen in ritual combat for 500 years. But Gage knew what it truly was; a challenge, a commitment, a sacred vow to finish this battle only by death.

  And with the gesture Gage knew that he had entered a world that went beyond tactics, beyond techniques, beyond known rules of combat; this was the place where flesh and blood failed, where battles were won by something beyond skill.

  Gage stopped 20 feet from the Japanese, a minimum safe distance. His eyes locked on Sato, the blade.

  So it comes to this …

  Gage raised his blade to hold it horizontally across his face, gazing over the razored edge. His left arm was folded, like a shield, across his chest. He lowered his head, his eyes hidden in shadow. Sweat glistened on his face.

  "You're a fool!" Sato hissed, black eyes gleaming like obsidian orbs. His face burned with wild rage, endless strength. "You're a fool to stand against me! What do you gain by defending them? Nothing!" He shook his head fiercely, sweat scattering. "You will gain nothing because their deaths mean nothing! Will you die for such fools?"

  Gage gazed over the blade. Nodded.

  With a shout Sato leaped into the open area before the crucifix.

  And Gage also leaped forward, blade leading, knowing instantly and without thinking that he had descended into the dominion of pain and blood and cold razored steel where only death wins in the end.

  *

  FIFTY-THREE

  A flash.

  With a desperate twist Gage had leaped outside the tanto that struck a silver arc through the air, tearing a shallow line through his leather coat and he spun instantly, slashing backhanded to hit Sato across the shoulder.

  The Japanese roared at the blow, turning into the blade like a wild beast and Gage fell back, alive and on fire, ready for anything. He feinted to the left, Sato took it and Gage leaped clear to the right.

  Sato adjusted without expression, advancing enraged and glaring. He didn't look down at his wound but Gage knew he would be assessing the shallow injury by feel just as he would have done.

  When Sato had taken the nine millimeter round in the park, Gage had assumed that the Japanese was wearing a ballistic vest. But now, with the way his blade had sliced through to flesh, Gage realized that Sato was wearing a ballistic shirt, far more pliable and far less resistant to a knife. But Gage also guessed that Sato would also have his ribs strapped to immediately staunch bleeding and maintain blood pressure. And, perhaps, to even further armor himself against a blade, the Japanese would be wearing leather gauntlets on his forearms similar to the gauntlets worn by ancient samurai.

  Gage was less prepared for the conflict with only the waist-length leather coat. He had even removed his shirt to stop Sarah's bleeding, leaving even less protection against the tanto's razor edge.

  Circling to the right, Gage kept his blade alive in constant, swaying movements primarily so that, when he did strike again, the blade's sudden movement forward would be lost for a split-second in
its casual, constantly waving motion.

  Sato matched his steps and movements in an equal but opposite direction, moving to his right also, countering the circling action.

  He whispered to Gage, taunting. "Did you like the way I marked your woman?"

  Gage felt the rage and instantly shut it down.

  Not yet!

  Concentrate!

  He'll strike when you've got the steps to your back ... He'll try and force you to retreat, to trip on the steps ... Get ready ... And don't move back ... That's what he'll expect ... Go lateral ... Know your distance from everything without looking at it ….

  Two more steps and Gage had his back to the altar. Without looking he knew he could retreat six feet and then he'd have to back-step up.

  A blinding low feint and Sato closed, Gage slashing down at the forearm as if he had taken the feint, and then he had leaped left, Sato's face following in surprised shock.

  Gage lunged, stabbing at a leg but Sato reacted instantly, whirling, coming off his feet in a spinning backhand.

  Too fast!

  Frantically Gage twisted down and away but felt the impact across his back. And he realized that he had kicked out instantly at the hit, roaring in pain, to connect against Sato's shins.

  Collision, chaos, and they went down together, clutching.

  Sato, stronger and faster, came down on top and the tanto flashed down. Anticipating the blow, Gage had already moved to grab Sato's elbow, jamming the arm high. And they struggled in the position, Sato's blade held high by Gage's desperate grip. Then Gage struck Sato with his forehead, stunning the Japanese before he tore away, rolling out of arm's reach to gain his feet.

  He staggered as he rose, dizzy.

  Sato rolled, dazed. And Gage used the moment to bend over, catching his breath. He felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his back; sharper at each thunderous heartbeat.