Twelve

by Dustin Stevens

  Kekoa turned his head and glared at the men fighting the flames. Maake shifted his weight so he was no longer facing Kekoa and instead the men dressed in black.

  The two waited until the final flames were out before making their move.

  Maake reached the first man and flattened him with a heavy palm strike to the base of his skull.

  Kekoa buried his shoulder into the closest man’s spine. Beside him, another man turned in surprise. Before he could move, Kekoa slammed two heavy fists down over each of his ears.

  A fourth man turned and flailed at Maake with his extinguisher. Maake ducked under it and caught the man with an uppercut that lifted him off his feet.

  One last opponent turned and began to run towards Kekoa.

  Maake lifted the extinguisher from the ground at his feet and tossed it to Kekoa. He caught it one handed and swung it in a hard backhanded blow that folded the extinguisher in half around the man’s face. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, not to move again.

  The two stood several feet apart, panting and staring down at their unmoving opponents.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re friends you know,” Kekoa said.

  “Hell no we’re not friends. We’re just momentary allies.”

  Kekoa cast a sideways glance at him. “The minute everybody else is gone...”

  “You and me," Maake said, waving a finger between them. "To the end.”

  The two men met eyes and nodded once.

  Together they marched off into the darkness.

  Seventy-Seven

  The smile that had been in place as Kekoa and Maake throttled each other was gone. The blank stare that had replaced it as they turned on the extras battling the fire was also gone.

  Now, abject terror filled the features of Winston.

  “Suddenly the Honeycutt’s teaming up doesn’t seem like such a big deal, does it?”

  Winston turned to Rosner. His mouth was agape and he didn’t even notice that Rosner was polishing his glasses yet again.

  Uncertainty filled the room. Many people stood and shouted questions at the screens. Several pointed in one direction or another.

  “Eric," Rosner said.

  Winston didn’t move.

  “Eric!”

  Winston blinked twice and shook his head. His eyes focused on Rosner, who was resting the glasses back across his face.

  “It’s not the end of the world," Rosner said.

  “Not the end of the world?" Winston exclaimed. "Those two Pacific Island idiots may have very well ended our chance to be brought in!”

  “You’re being dramatic again.”

  “Would you stop saying that?”

  “Would you stop doing it?”

  The color rushed back to Winston’s face. He turned and faced the table beneath him and gritted his teeth.

  “Again," Rosner scolded, "the most important thing here is that everybody sees us react in a calm and reasoned manner. If you panic, they’ll panic.”

  Winston forced his breath out through his nose. “What do you suggest?”

  “Anything but what you’re doing.”

  The trance lifted from Winston. The terror slid from his mind and thoughts began to race through. He opted to do the only thing he could.

  Tell them the truth.

  Winston stood and walked again to the podium. People around the room stopped shouting and waited for him to speak. Many eased themselves back into their seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! I can tell you two things with one hundred percent certainty.

  “First, I am just as shocked as you are right now. Second, we in no way, shape or form planned that. What you just saw is what makes these nights so much fun, right? Complete unpredictability. Competition at its finest.”

  A few people cast glances between each other. Some shook their head.

  Winston pulled the schematic up. What he found was more than he could have hoped for.

  “I can tell you two more things with complete certainty right now too. First, if I were sitting where you folks are right now, I’d be betting on Maake Fatu or Kekoa Lani.”

  He pressed a button and pulled another video feed up to the main screen.

  “And second, I would not bet another dime on the Honeycutt’s.”

  Seventy-Eight

  The wooden floor seemed to creak beneath Heath’s every step. His forward progress was pained and stalled as he was forced to stop every few minutes to listen. His hand touched the knife in his pocket repeatedly as he walked.

  The hall was wide and open as he came to an intersection. He walked into the middle of it and turned in a long, slow circle.

  To his left, he could feel the slightest of drafts coursing through.

  His mind filled with the idea that the hall led outside, maybe even to his car.

  Heath turned toward it and moved down the hallway, with each step the breeze grew a little stronger. He broke into a light jog and was about to round the last turn in the path when the breeze stopped.

  Heath slowed to a walk and swung wide to his left, peering around the corner towards the source of the breeze.

  At the end of the hall a door to the outside stood open. The air had stopped flowing through it because the entire doorway was blocked by the massive frame of Boucher.

  “Oh shit,” Heath muttered.

  “Thought I heard somebody coming,” Boucher said. “I was hoping for one of the ladies, but you’ll do just as well.”

  Heath glanced back the way he had came, but an iron gate was already sliding into place. He watched as it slammed shut with a disheartening clank of metal.

  “Don’t bother going back that way,” Boucher said. “Chasing you will only piss me off.”

  “And I’m guessing just letting me by isn’t an option?” Heath managed in a voice much stronger than he felt.

  Boucher chuckled for a moment. He then thrust his heavy beard towards the ceiling and laughed. “That’s a good one lad.” He lowered his eyes back down to Heath and his voice grew serious. “Not good enough to save your life. But good enough to give me a proper chuckle.”

  Boucher unfolded his arms from his chest and started for Heath. He walked in long, straight strides and his fists bunched into balls by his side.

  Heath remained where he was and watched Boucher approach. His eyes darted around for any escape route.

  There was decidedly none.

  Without another word Boucher strode for him until just ten feet separated them. He then broke into a quick shuffle, moving straight at Heath.

  Heath waited for the first looping right to come swinging in. Just as it did, he rolled under the punch and onto his feet. In one fluid movement he was up and running as hard as he could for the door.

  Three steps into his run, an iron gate started to slide across the doorway. Before he was even halfway there, it was closed.

  Heath slowed himself to a jog and after a few more steps pulled to a stop. He stared in disbelief for a moment and slowly turned back.

  Boucher was right behind him. How a man his size had got there that fast, Heath had no idea.

  “I told you you would just piss me off!” Boucher roared and drove a straight right into Heath’s chest.

  The blow was the hardest Heath had ever been hit by anything in his life. It forced his feet from under him as he flew backwards. He felt every vertebrae in his back pop as he fell.

  The shot pushed the breath from Heath’s body and when he landed he didn’t move. Instead he stayed on the ground, sucking in ragged gasps of air.

  In front of him Boucher walked back and forth, measuring him.

  Heath rolled onto his knees and pushed his forehead up from the ground. One leg at a time he drew himself upright and rose to face Boucher.

  Boucher waited until Heath was on his feet and moved in again. He went for another straight right and Heath slid to the side to avoid it. The move threw him off balance and he could do nothing but brace himself for the wicked overha
nd left just above his temple.

  Bright lights popped before his eyes and the same cobwebs as before filled his vision as he fell back to his hands and knees. He could hear the blood pumping into his throbbing eardrums and his breath continued to come in ragged gasps.

  In front of him, Boucher’s feet went back to pacing. “Come on now, you’re not even making this fun for me!”

  Swinging his leg like a pendulum, Boucher stepped forward with his left foot and drove his right foot into Heath’s stomach. He pitched forward flat onto the wooden floor, every last bit of air driven from his body. Blackness began to creep a little further into his vision.

  Above him Boucher searched the walls for the nearest camera. He held his hands far out to his sides and screamed, “I am The Butcher!” again and again.

  Heath pressed his cheek into the cool floor and flexed his fingertips. Blood began to circulate again and bit by bit air reentered his lungs. The black receded into gray fuzz on the edge of his vision.

  “Alright lad, if this is all you’ve got, it’s time for me to be moving on.”

  Heath felt two large hands grab him by the collar of his shirt and his belt and hoist him on to his feet. He stood there wobbling for a moment, barely able to stay upright under his own power.

  “This is a little something I’m known for back home,” Boucher said.

  In a flash, he moved in on Heath and clamped his enormous arms around him. He pinned Heath’s arms to his sides and lifted him high off the ground.

  Then he began to squeeze.

  The first thing to pop was Heath’s neck, followed by the last of his vertebrae that hadn’t already.

  Then Boucher squeezed tighter.

  The last of his air was driven from Heath’s lungs.

  One last time, Boucher squeezed tighter still.

  The grey on the edge of Heath’s vision began to move to black again. Pain seared through his body as he felt one rib separate and then another.

  Heath gasped in pain, trying to draw in air.

  “Really wasn’t fair you know,” Boucher said through gritted teeth. “Pitting you against The Butcher.”

  The darkness moved further into Heath’s vision and his hands stopped fighting and fell to his sides. His fingertips fell over his thighs.

  An inch from unconscious, he felt the ceramic knife in his pocket.

  Blinking to keep the darkness from swallowing him, he inched his fingers into his pocket and slid the knife out. He wrapped his fist around the base of it and jammed it mid-thigh into Boucher.

  Boucher laughed. “You really think that little pin prick is going to do anything but anger me?”

  Summoning the last of his strength, Heath sliced a deep diagonal cut clear to the knee. Warm blood sluiced up on to his hand and forearm.

  A moment later, Boucher’s grip began to loosen.

  After a few seconds, it relaxed completely.

  Heath fell from Boucher’s arms and straight onto his hands and knees. Blood spurted from Boucher’s leg across his neck and chest.

  He didn’t even notice as he gulped in huge pulls of precious oxygen.

  “What the...what the hell?” Boucher asked. The color drained from his face and he took a ragged step forward. He tried to swing another punch down at Heath, but it just glanced off his back.

  “Femoral artery asshole," Heath wheezed. "A man your size, straining as hard as you were, takes less than a minute to bleed out.”

  Heath filled his lungs and stood up as Boucher hit his knees. He watched as blood continued to pour from the leg wound.

  Boucher opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. A moment later he fell to his chest, no longer able to support his own weight.

  Heath stood over him for another moment and watched as he took his last breaths. A moment of pity swelled in him as he watched the enormous man fall inert.

  Just as fast, it passed.

  Heath drew himself up and stared down at Boucher’s body.

  “Really wasn’t fair you know, pitting you against The Doctor.”

  Seventy-Nine

  Both SUVs cut their lights a half mile out. They coasted to a stop just short of Dunbar and Ludwig Roads, one behind the other.

  Manus and Nixon climbed out, joined by Briggs and Heller and the six Marines. “What have you got for us Stone?”

  Stone flashed him a grim look. “It’s choppy as hell, but it’s all we’ve got given the circumstances.”

  “Lay it on us.”

  Stone cast a glance around the room. “I don’t know if this is going to get ugly, but I can’t make any promises that it won’t. That being said, I can only in good conscience take my men in with me.”

  Manus and Nixon both raised an instant objection.

  Stone raised a hand and pushed forward. “That’s not a knock on any one of you. We have trained together. We know each other’s tendencies and capabilities. We’re tactically sound and we’re equipped for such an operation.”

  “So what do we do? Sit out here and scratch ourselves?” Manus asked. “This is my operation you know. I brought you guys in on this.”

  “I know, sir, but this is what you brought us in for. We will breach and contact you the second we have secured the scene.”

  Manus cast an angry scowl around the group. “So what’s the plan?”

  “In the simplest terms I know, we’re going to run the bait and switch.

  “Manus you will be in one SUV with Briggs. I want you to turn on the lights, the stereo, everything you’ve got. Make a scene. Blow the horn, pretend to be drunk. I don’t know, I don’t care. Get creative.

  “Nixon, you and Heller will do the same thing on the opposite side of the compound. There isn’t a driveway over there, so just throw some dirt around and make a lot of noise.

  “The idea is for you to pull as many guards as you can to the opposite extremes of the grounds.”

  He hooked a thumb over his left shoulder. “Give use five minutes to get in place halfway down the wall over there. We’ll give each of you an additional five to do your thing.

  “Then we go over.”

  “And from there?” Manus asked.

  Behind him, two Marines racked rounds into their M-16’s.

  “We’ll call you when we’re in,” Stone said.

  Silence fell around the group.

  “Alright,” Manus said. “Let’s do this.”

  Stone checked his watch. “Five minutes.” He waved his hand in a quick circle in the air. As one, the Marines slipped into the woods on the opposite side of the road.

  Manus looked at the remaining three agents. He checked his watch and began to walk towards the second SUV. “Nixon, get on the horn and check to see how we’re doing on getting a crew out here. Everybody else, be ready to move in five.”

  Together, the four began moving towards their respective SUVs.

  Before Manus reached the driver’s door of his, Nixon jogged up behind him and put a hand on his arm. “Real quick...why’s this so personal to you?”

  The question caught Manus by surprise. “You mean besides my agent laying disemboweled in Idiotville?”

  “That just made you angry. Added urgency. This was personal before you ever got off the plane.”

  Manus paused and narrowed his eyes a bit. “Why you asking me this?”

  Nixon weighed the question and twisted his head slightly. “Call it full disclosure. We’ve got a lot at stake here. I’d like to know what’s driving it.”

  Manus paused for just a second. He exhaled through his nose and nodded his head. “My old man was an agent. Twenty-six years ago he was investigating a drug conglomerate operating out of South America.

  “He tracked them as far as Santiago, Chile. Supposed to be some big, one-night event with all the heavy hitters in the same room. Something happened. Nobody really knows because there were no survivors.”

  Nixon nodded.

  “His body was never recovered,” Manus continued. “A few weeks after
his funeral, we got a postcard in the mail.”

  Manus pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slipped a tattered card from it. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and extended it to Nixon.

  “Greetings from Santiago,” Nixon said.

  He slid the card back to Manus.

  “They made it personal a long time ago." Manus returned the card to his wallet and checked his watch. “Five minutes are up. It’s time to go.”

  Eighty

  A collective gasp rang from the room.

  At first, the mood had been morbid curiosity. The doctor that wasn’t supposed to be there matched against a burly Canadian and one of the favorites.

  Next, the mood turned to pity as Boucher pummeled Heath with relative ease.

  Then, it transitioned again to resigned indifference as Boucher lifted him from the ground and prepared to finish him off. Some even went back to their cigars and conversation.

  Finally, as Heath performed the improbable, fatal blow, came the gasp. A second one went up in quick succession as everybody that had stopped watching realized what had happened.

  For the first time all evening, the reaction to an outcome was complete silence.

  “What was that last line about not betting on Will Honeycutt?” Rosner asked as he lifted a cup of tea and drank from it, impervious to the glare Winston was giving him. “You do of course realize no matter how many glares, scowls and eye-rolls you give me, they have no effect.”

  “Not physically,” Winston said, “but the good they do my psyche is invaluable.”

  Rosner motioned towards the screen with his cup. “How’s that psyche doing now?”

  Winston shook his head. “How did that just happen?”

  “Like you yourself just said, things happen in competition. It’s part of what makes these events fun.”

  “I was referring to the possibility of seeing a battle royal with our top three competitors for the championship! Not seeing one of them taken out by Dr. Phil!”

  Rosner sniffed and placed the cup back on its saucer.

  “So what do we do now?” Winston muttered.