by Jon Land
“Of course. Without spectators, there is no sport. You should be grateful, Mr. McCracken. I’m offering you a chance to live.”
Even if that were true, the chance was minute, Blaine thought as he watched Fass’s Minotaur pull on a pair of gloves decorated with rows of sharp spikes protruding a half inch or so outward. Last the giant donned a bull’s-head mask complete with pointed horns which would make a formidable weapon for a man who knew how to wield them, as this one undoubtedly did.
“I must warn you, Mr. McCracken,” Fass told him, “that my Minotaur has never even come close to being defeated. But, then, he has never faced a challenge as worthy as the one you will pose. Remember, victory means your life. I expect a good show.” Then to his guards, “Lead him inside, but search him again first.”
The men ruffled Blaine twice over, until they were satisfied he had no other weapons. Then they led him up to the Labyrinth’s front door and shoved him through. The door slammed and echoed behind him. Blaine’s first thought was that the lighting was dim, little more than the glow off a digital clock in a darkened bedroom. He would make as much use of it as possible. Not waiting for his eyes to adjust, he began walking. Fifteen feet down the corridor he reached an abutment that forced him to take a right, then a left. He was totally at the mercy of the Labyrinth’s construction.
The problems it raised were many, and Blaine contemplated most of them in the seconds before the Minotaur’s expected entry. To begin with, there were the walls of the structure itself. If he became trapped in a false passageway, backed up against a corner, his chances of defeating the spiked and horned giant would be reduced significantly. He had to make the maze’s construction work for him somehow, perhaps taking the monster from behind. That task in itself would be close to impossible without a weapon. A man that huge and heavily muscled would feel little pain from a blow that would fell an ordinary man. Only a perfect strike would have any effect at all and McCracken wondered if in the near-darkness he could muster one.
Even if he managed to defeat the Minotaur, he had no illusions that Fass would in fact grant him his life. The prospect might appeal to the sportsman in Fass by providing motivation for McCracken to put on a good show. But no man in the Greek’s position would ever dare cross Vasquez. McCracken had to the here, at the hands of the Minotaur on videotape, or by the guns of Fass’s guards. It didn’t matter. Not only did he have to slay the Minotaur, he also had to escape the Labyrinth by a means other than the entrance—a problem far greater than what Theseus had faced even with his ball of wool.
Blaine kept walking, at first trying to memorize the twisting corridors for future reference. But each turn brought him to a corner he swore he had seen before yet knew he couldn’t have. He was totally confused, his sense of direction completely gone. He might have covered the entire swirling length of the Labyrinth or he might have gotten nowhere at all. Impossible to say.
There was a soft echo of a door being snapped back into place and McCracken knew the Minotaur had risen from the subterranean corridors beneath the structure. He strained his ears to hear the monster’s footsteps approaching, then recalled the giant’s feet had been clothed in light sandals that would not produce a sound. He could stay in the same place and wait for the Minotaur to make his move, but inaction was not part of McCracken’s nature. The thing to do was hunt the monster, who would expect that least of all. Fass would get a better show on his video than he could have possibly imagined.
The cameras! If he could find and disable them, he could blind Fass to whatever escape he chose after slaying the Minotaur … .
Wait, Blaine urged himself. He was getting ahead of himself, way ahead. First he had to deal with the creature, which promised to be a near impossible task in itself.
Not creature, he reminded himself. He’s just a man and that’s how I’ve got to think of him … .
McCracken swung right and found a wall before him. A quick turn to the left brought him to another. He had trapped himself and would have to double back. Damn! How could he hunt the monster hunting him if he couldn’t even find his way? He supposed the giant had memorized these corridors, but perhaps there were coded signs on the wall or floor.
Blaine felt the pounding of his heart intensify and fought to steady his breathing. He tried to listen for the sounds of the giant approaching, but his own thoughts got in the way.
Relax! he urged himself. Release! … .
Advice and training from Johnny Wareagle. Release everything, the big Indian had counseled him, and surrender to the forces. Feel what lies around you. Don’t wait to see or hear it. Release!
McCracken stopped. He had come to a point in the Labyrinth where he could go left or right. He calmed himself and let his feelings take over. Going left would take him back in his own path. Going right was the answer.
He stayed on the move, thinking now that the best strategy would be to lure the Minotaur into a closed-off corridor and then attack. He came to the end of a small corridor and turned to reverse his footing.
The noise was slight, flesh grazing wood, but he had heard it. Blaine released. The Minotaur was three turns away, coming directly for him, aware of his presence.
A weapon, I need a weapon … .
McCracken pulled up his shirt quickly. Fass’s guards had searched him but neglected to strip off his belt with its heavy brass buckle. He had forgotten about it, just as they had. Wielded properly, it could make a potent weapon indeed.
Blaine yanked it through the loops and wrapped it twice around his arm, leaving a foot-and-a-half or so extended with the heavy buckle dangling free. He could feel the Minotaur closing now, and he imagined the sharp glove spikes and head horns. Others in this position would have waited to jump out when the giant was close. Waiting was what had gotten them killed.
McCracken headed toward the Minotaur’s position, felt him just around the next turn and lunged forward at the instant he expected him to appear.
The timing of the move was perfect. The Minotaur glided round the abutment just as Blaine swung his belt into violent motion. It lashed upward against the side of the giant’s mask. He grunted, and Blaine wasted no time in whipping the belt again. The Minotaur ducked late and the belt buckle snapped into his eye. This time the giant howled in pain and staggered, blinded and instinctively bringing the back of his spiked glove up to his brow.
McCracken continued his assault, blasting the much bigger man several times in the kidneys. Then he leaped behind the Minotaur and looped the belt around his throat. He pulled both ends tight, taking up the slack and tightening the noose. Blaine heard the rush of air trapped in the monster’s throat and felt certain he had won.
But Fass’s Minotaur had managed to sneak one of his spiked gloves upward and wedge it between his flesh and the belt. One of the spikes was close to ripping through it. McCracken managed to close off most of his air but the Minotaur was conscious and still struggling.
Blaine yanked backwards on the makeshift noose, and the giant’s huge throat emitted a watery sound. Blaine drew closer, trying to increase pressure for the kill.
A mistake.
The Minotaur sensed his position and sent his free glove, the one that wasn’t fighting desperately to tear through the belt, hurtling backwards. The tips of the spikes ripped through the flesh of McCracken’s midsection. The pain was enormous, blood spreading through the ragged rips in his white shirt and jacket. Now it was McCracken who screamed, easing up enough for the Minotaur to tear free from the noose.
He swung the spiked glove at Blaine and McCracken managed to duck at the last possible instant, feeling the steel whistle over his head. The main problem now was to neutralize the monster’s deadly hands. McCracken wrapped his arms around the Minotaur’s waist, locking the bulging arms at his sides, and drove the massive frame backwards against one of the walls. The whole structure seemed to tremble and Blaine felt the monster struggling futilely to pull his spiked gloves free of the lock, while Blaine angled himself to ram
his knee into the giant’s groin.
The huge testicles, a bull’s indeed, made a welcome target and Blaine pounded them twice. The Minotaur, gasping in pain after McCracken’s second strike rammed home, lowered his head, tensed his neck, and thrust the sharp horns directly at McCracken.
Blaine felt them pierce his back and screamed in agony. The giant tore them out, taking a measure of flesh with them. Then with one swift motion, he tossed McCracken to the floor.
Even in the darkness, Blaine could see the spiked gloves converging toward his head. He shrank back and the steel clanged together. McCracken backpedaled as the beast stalked him for the kill.
The belt! The damn belt! Where was it? Blaine needed a weapon, and he needed it now.
The monster had slowed his pace to regroup and ease the pain in his groin. He moved with his legs closer together, involuntarily protecting his ruined testicles. McCracken retreated until he reached a dead-end wall. He could almost feel Megilido Fass ogling in expectation of the kill. Well, it wasn’t going to come as fast as he thought… .
McCracken tore off both his loafers and pushed his hands into them. In the next motion he moved away from the wall, in order to meet the Minotaur where he would have the advantage of his greater mobility. His strategy was simple. He could not possibly hope to fend off the spiked gloves with merely his hands. He needed more, something to parry with to buy himself time.
The Minotaur hesitated, unsure, then came at Blaine fast and hard. His right glove lashed out for Blaine’s throat. McCracken deflected it with the shoe and launched a kick into the giant’s knee. The Minotaur grimaced and limped sideways, swishing the other glove through the air. This time McCracken stepped to the inside and extended his shoed hand to block the spikes. With the second shoe he rammed the Minotaur’s solar plexus. Again the giant gasped and staggered backwards. For the moment the advantage was Blaine’s.
What do you think of that, Fass?
The taunt was only in his mind, but it was enough to disturb his concentration. The Minotaur swung out wildly with a spiked glove and Blaine tried to reroute the force and lodge the spikes in the giant’s midsection. But in doing so he totally neglected the second glove which pounded his left side with fiery pain as the spikes tore in and then out. McCracken closed in reflexively to prevent the giant from fashioning a killing blow, but the Minotaur was equal to the task. He heaved McCracken upward by the throat with his two huge arms, then slammed him into the wall. McCracken could see him angling the spikes for a simultaneous sweep across his throat. But before they found flesh, Blaine was able to smash the giant’s ears with his forearms. His balance shaken, the Minotaur dropped Blaine to the floor.
Blaine hit the floor hard and rolled, out of range of what he felt certain would be a countermove. But the giant was still struggling to get his balance back. He was in pain and breathing hard. McCracken, though, held no illusions he could finish the beast even on these terms. He was just too big and too strong. And Blaine had suffered too many injuries to generate the kind of blows that were required. The Minotaur swiped wildly at him once more and McCracken ducked under the blow and rushed back into the Labyrinth.
He knew the monster was giving chase, knew it even as the pain exploded through his sides and back. He could feel the warm blood soaking him everywhere. He realized he had lost his shoes back there, and he started to feel dizzy. He wavered as he ran, crashing into a wall.
No! Release! Release!
He fought to recall all of Johnny Wareagle’s lessons. What would he do faced with the same predicament? Probably rip out the Minotaur’s throat with his bare hands. Blaine had no doubt he could do it. Without Johnny’s superhuman strength, Blaine would have to find another means.
Release!
His breath came more easily, and he negotiated the twisting turns and corners with surprising ease, only once turning into a dead end.
Wait! A dead end was just what he needed, a corner the Minotaur would have no choice but to follow him into. Through all the blood and pain, McCracken concentrated on something he had noticed about the structure of the Labyrinth. The top of the inner walls had a space of an inch or so between them and the ceiling, indicating the ceiling itself must be false. The panels snapped into steel girders and would be removable. Yes, that was it!
The Minotaur’s labored breathing was around the corner from McCracken. Just a few more turns to negotiate!
Blaine scaled the wall, virtually running up it until his fingers locked on the ridge between partition and ceiling. His feet against the wall enabled him to raise one of his hands, knock aside a ceiling panel, and grab one of the steel girders. He pulled the rest of his frame upward, legs hoisted high to his chest, prepared to spring. His hands held fast, feet pressing hard against the side wall for leverage. If the darkness was sufficient, he would have one chance to pull off what he planned. One chance …
The Minotaur turned the corner and headed down the corridor just far enough to see that the dead end did not reveal his quarry. He swung around.
McCracken dropped upon him, pushing his legs out hard to cover the distance. In one swift motion he had grabbed hold of the bull’s-head mask by the horns and yanked it off. Then he fell to the floor as, disoriented, the giant reeled backwards, bellowed and charged him with both spiked gloves raised overhead.
He never saw McCracken drive the bull’s-head mask forward horns first, into the rippling flesh of his abdomen. The Minotaur’s insides spilled outward—blood and flesh pooled with steaming intestines—and the giant collapsed in a heap.
Breathing hard, McCracken slid back against the wall. The bloody headpiece fell to the floor. God, the pain racked him, but he had beaten Fass’s damn monster.
Still the Greek would have seen it all on the monitors. Even now his guards would be heading into the Labyrinth to finish the Minotaur’s job for him. Blaine needed a way out, and it had to be now!
The Minotaur would have been able to use more than one entry from the subterranean tunnels, but how could he find these entries? Where were they?
Blaine could hear the heavy footsteps of Fass’s guards charging into the maze. Their pursuit would be slowed considerably by the twists and turns which would provide some time for him. He had to make it enough.
McCracken dropped to his hands and knees, the motion sending bolts of pain through his wounded sides and back. His hands probed the floor beneath him as he crawled in search of a slight space indicating the presence of a passage from below.
The heavy boots were almost upon him when he found it. Blaine wedged his fingers tight into an opening and lifted upwards. The trapdoor came free. Beneath him the darkness was total. McCracken started to lower his frame in and then dropped down into the blackness.
Chapter 17
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN he’s not there?” Megilido Fass demanded from the safety of his office. “I saw him drop into the passageway myself! I have it on tape!”
“We have searched everywhere and found no sign of him,” the captain of the guards reported.
“Impossible! Bring him to me or I’ll cut your throat instead!”
“I cannot deliver that which is no longer here.”
“He couldn’t have escaped! He couldn’t!”
“Sir,” the captain said as placatingly as possible, “please don’t forget that the Labyrinth was constructed over several ancient entrances to the Sfakia caves. McCracken could have found one of these entrances before we arrived and plunged into it to escape.”
“Impossible, I tell you, impossible!” Fass persisted, his tone one of panic.
“So was defeating the Minotaur … or that was what we thought until today. Rest assured that the man is out of miracles, though. Once in the maze of caves underlying this area, no man could ever find his way out again.”
“I want you to send teams into the caves just to be sure.”
“Sir,” the captain begged, “it is too easy for them to lose their way. They might never make it out again.”
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br /> “Tell them to take along a spool of wool,” Fass joked madly, but the humor was lost on the captain.
Night fell with the passing of hours. Fass’s guards searched the underground chambers beneath the Labyrinth again and again; team after team of men emerged dirty and frustrated. Several groups were ordered into the maze of caves, connected to their entrances by ropes that permitted entry up to three hundred yards. The lighting was insufficient, the air stale and dank. By nightfall, it seemed hopeless and the search was called off. Somehow Blaine McCracken had found a way to elude them. Fass insisted that the guards around the villa compound be doubled. The captain agreed, knowing in his own mind that there was no way a man like McCracken would ever return so soon after leaving.
In fact, though, Blaine had never left. The pain from his wounds convinced him he was in no shape for anything but rest. But tending his wounds would have to wait. For now, all that mattered was survival.
He was betting that Fass would have moved to alert his guards as soon as he saw Blaine drop through the entrance. Fass would not be paying close attention to his monitor screens. So upon landing, Blaine counted to five, climbed back up into the Labyrinth, and ducked safely behind another partition just as the guards reached the trapdoor he had left propped up. Later he had moved deeper into what he judged to be the center of the Labyrinth. The guards would never think to check it. There was clearly no reason to, since he had been seen escaping.
In the ensuing hours, Blaine cared for himself as best he could by ripping his shirt into strips for bandages and tourniquets. Without medical supplies, all he could do was stay still and let the wounds close naturally. It took three hours for the pain to subside and another one for exhaustion to give way to sleep. When Blaine awoke, night had fallen. His built-in clock told him it was between eight and nine o’clock. Any sounds of men searching beneath him were gone.
But his business with Megilido Fass was by no means finished.
Blaine knew his wounds would prove extremely restricting but with stealth and cleverness he could do what had to be done. McCracken wanted Fass now more than anything, including the Atragon. He neither enjoyed nor loathed killing. But taking the life of a man who placed no value on life, who had slit the throat of an innocent boy just as easily as he would have swatted a fly, would give Blaine satisfaction. He could not lie to himself about that.