Dues of Mortality (44 page)

“
Senor
Sombra
,”
Pedro shouted. “I know you are not armed! Otherwise, you would
have already tried to shoot me, no? I can understand your willingness
to survive! But perhaps it is time you understand that this is the
way it is going to be! If you come out now, I promise you I will be
merciful! There will be no pain!”

Still
stationed behind the tree, Xavier slowly bent at the knees while
keeping his back against its wide trunk. He filled a hand with two
small rocks, and then returned to a straightened position. The nylon
garden hose he'd carried with him was already tied in place.

“
If
you prolong this, I cannot say what will happen!” Pedro warned.
“I am not very patient, Sombra! But unlike my friend back in
the house, I have no wish to see people suffer needlessly!”

Xavier
shook his head. He understood why the guy was talking, but it didn't
make it any less stupid.
Just keep yapping,
asshole
, Xavier
thought.
I’m
having a hard enough time seeing you as it is
. He chucked
the rocks several yards to the right, where they struck another tree,
making a considerable clatter. The assassin pinpointed the direction
of the sound and sprinted toward it with his gun extended in front of
him like a guided missile. Once he passed between the two off-setting
trees, Xavier tugged hard on the garden hose tripwire he’d tied
to one of them and had concealed with loose dirt and leaves. It
caught the assassin's right foot perfectly and the low-life went
down, face in the dirt. Xavier's size-ten hiking boot then kicked
out, connecting with the assassin's wrist and sending his gun into a
sea of darkened underbrush. The unforgiving strip of nylon was around
the assassin's neck before he could even come up for air. Xavier
leaned back, crossed his arms and pulled hard from both three and
nine o'clock, ordering his muscles to perform well beyond their
capacity.
He
had to end this quick, he thought
. Glenda was still in
danger back at the house.

Pedro
felt the blood pooling in his head and knew, instantly, he was done
for if he didn't summon his strength. He threw his upper body
forcefully against the sombra's thighs and collapsed his center of
gravity. The sombra fell backward and lost most of his grip on the
ligature. Pedro then threw back and elbow and caught the sombra in
the balls.

Xavier
buckled from the shot, which had caught him not
squarely
in the balls, but close enough to feel the infamous recoil in his
gut. The assassin then rolled over and tried to get a fist into
Xavier's face. Xavier threw up his guard and blocked it. He drove his
knee upward to keep the assassin from pinning him. He struck him just
under the chin and the assassin toppled backward, straightening his
knees and going upright. Xavier rolled quickly out of his path and
came to a standing position, half nauseated.
Good
,
he thought. At least now it was a fair fight.

Using
a little slight-of-hand, Pedro produced a six-inch carbon steel
hunting knife from his person like a seasoned stage magician. His
other hand, balled with a fist full of dirt, remained low at his
side. He stared his opponent down, his eyes narrowed to slits. He'd
lost his goggles when he pulled himself out from under what he could
now see was a nylon garden hose that had been wrapped around his
neck. He tauntingly slashed the air.

Xavier
shook his head in disgust.
Terrific
,
he thought and
tensed into a
defensive posture, throwing his arms vertically across his torso to
protect his vital organs
.

“
You
impress me,
Sombra
,”
Pedro said smoothly. “You do not give up easily. I like that in
a man.” He then advanced on Xavier athletically, thrusting and
slashing with the knife in a standard saber grip.

“
Come
on, you’ve got to do better than that,” Xavier teased.
He'd judged this guy to be vulnerable to smack-talk. And, he was
trying not to look
equally
impressed by the assassin's
agility; any attempt at psych-out was warranted.

Pedro
made another quick slashing motion with his knife and whipped a
fistful of dirt into Xavier’s face on the return.

Shit!
The dirt blinded Xavier in his right eye, but his left eye
was unscathed. Xavier instantly anticipated the hunting knife's blade
bulleting toward his chest. As he stepped back, preparing to greet
the attack, he felt what he prayed was the assassin's pistol under
his boot. He sidestepped to the outside, seized Pedro's knife hand
and fixed it under his armpit up to the elbow. Keeping his movements
fluid, Xavier brought his other arm underneath Pedro's bicep to get a
solid lock then dropped backward, propelling them both into a judo
flip.

Pedro
landed on his back with a
whump
. He expected the sombra to
roll with him and try for the pin, but instead he let go. By time
Pedro got to his feet, which was all of two seconds, he could see
why.

“
Hold
it,” Xavier said sternly. He had recovered a split second
faster, retrieved Pedro’s gun and was aiming him down.

“
What
are you waiting for, Sombra?” Pedro said matter-of-factly. “I'm
going to cut you're lady's head off anyway.”

Xavier
bared his teeth. Any notion of mercy had just went out the window.
“Your funeral,” he said...and squeezed the trigger.

Or
tried to.

Xavier
peered down at the weapon in horror. Peeking from between three of
his fingers was a half-inch, blue incandescent stripe that ran the
length of the grip.
A biometric
print lock.
Kidding me
,
he thought.
Why the hell was he having such bad luck with guns
lately?

Glenda
circled the house in fits and starts, wanting desperately to call out
for Xavier. When she found no sign of him, she darted swiftly across
the shortest distance to the thick band of trees. It made sense, she
thought. He talked about luring them away. The surrounding woods was
the only “away” there was and if he was being followed
he'd want to get there fast. “Damn it, Xavier, you’d
better be alive or else,” she whispered to herself. As she went
about catching her breath, a tiny green firefly fluttered across her
field of vision. It didn't even take a full second before she
realized what it truly was and she dove reflexively in the opposite
direction. A large chunk of bark exploded from the tree closest by
her.

“
You
scrawny bitch,” Bonaparte yelled from across the lawn. “I
can’t wait to
fucking
kill you!” He wanted to say
more, but stifled it. It was dumb to shout out like that to begin
with, but his rage was at peak capacity. He felt woozy and sensed the
mild stream of blood dribbling down the back of his head. He had a
concussion for sure. He knew it after spending almost twenty seconds
on the floor of the basement in a haze. He'd gotten up, found the
lift disabled and had to search under his night-vision for another
way up. After a minute, he'd discovered the staircase at the far end
of the room and ascended it with the itchiest of trigger fingers.
When he found the first floor devoid of life, he'd headed outside.
The Jameson bitch was running for the trees. He aimed out and fired,
his vision wavering. He was never so angry at having missed. He
took
off toward Glenda's position, but by
the
time he traversed the lawn, Glenda—ex high-school track
star—had blended seamlessly into the Stygian forest.

This
is crazy. This is crazy!
Glenda thought, as she flattened
her back against the base of a maple tree wide enough to conceal
three of her. It dawned on her that the second assassin could be
watching her right now.
But
then I'd be dead right? What would stop either of them from shooting
me where I stood? Dammit, Kelmer was right. I'm only making things
worse
. She angled her head to look out from behind the
tree. She heard the ground rustle close to her along with that
familiar shift of airflow. Before she could even think, Glenda's fist
catapulted behind her in a full 180-degree swing. It did her no good.
Her forearm brushed over a head of hair and the next thing she knew,
a sweaty palm flattened against her mouth and nearly butted her head
against the tree.

Bonaparte
angrily skulked his way into the maze of trees, jumping at odd noises
and blasting off rounds of tracer fire into the dense woods.
Night-vision was great, but it couldn't stop him from wasting ammo on
shit that wasn't human. He was desperate to call out for Pedro. He
couldn't raise him on the two-way and was starting to worry.

When
something streaked across Bonaparte's line of sight from several
yards away, he nearly fired, but thought better of it. If he missed
or was shooting at an animal, he'd have only succeeded in
broadcasting his position—assuming he hadn't done so already.
But
that was no animal
,
he thought.
Too big
.
Bonaparte scampered through the brush, pursuing the image with abject
murder in his eyes. Naturally, by time he reached the sight, whatever
he had seen was long gone.

“
Come
on, you chicken-shit,” Bonaparte whispered to himself.
“Come...He whipped his head hard to the left. There! The woman!
He could see her plain as day in the green glow of his night-vision
standing by a tree of her own. A perfect profile staring off in a
full ninety-degrees from his position. Bonaparte pressed a shoulder
to the tree he stood by and aimed out. When he was sure he had his
shot, he squeezed gently on the trigger. The muzzle of his gun
flashed and the woman flinched. She ducked behind her tree and
Bonaparte lost sight of her altogether.
No
fucking way,
he thought.
His
eyes were playing tricks on him.
No
way she ducked that!
Bonaparte
sprinted to the spot where she had been standing, cock-sure he would
find a partially decapitated corpse or, at the very least, some blood
spatter.

“
Shit!”
he grumbled. Nothing! Not a damn thing! He continued to pan the
immediate area, regardless. His eyes came to a stop at about nine
o'clock south. He spied the body laying face down in the dirt, a
fleck of moonlight bouncing off the quality patent leather of its
coat.
He
got him
,
Bonaparte, thought.
The
shithead who ran from the house, Pedro got him
.
Yes!
He
moved in to confirm the kill, all the while, keeping his MAG aimed
straight down at the stilled body.
He
could
already smell the fat five-figure bonus that would soon be burning a
hole in his pocket.

He
squatted over the body and got the sickest of chills as he reached
under its ribcage. From there, the
body
seemed to turn over almost in slow motion. Its chin dropped so far
over the shoulder that it left no question as to the cause of death.
And Bonaparte had certainly inflicted enough broken necks in his time
to know one when he saw it. The body wasn't even completely on its
back before Bonaparte recognized the face.

Pedro!

Bonaparte's lips went dry as he
gawked at the battered face of his lover and partner, motionless on
the ground. “What the fu...” He heard the squish of twigs
and soft earth behind him.

Xavier had to choose between
disarming the assassin or bashing his skull in. He chose the latter.
But when the asshole turned to shoot at the last second, Xavier had
to adapt. He was grateful that he'd found a big enough stick rather
than a rock. He swung his makeshift club in a heavy downward arc. It
connected with the assassin's wrist and a muzzle-flash lit up the
space between them. The assassin yelped in pain, dropping his weapon
into the swampy brush. Having successfully subtracted the gun from
the equation, Xavier kicked out at the assassin's knee, but missed.
The blow with the club had been all that was needed to make the
killer back away.

Bonaparte stepped aside from a
foot that was poised to crack his knee, but, instead, just scraped
his thigh. His MAG was lost and his wrist was on fire. Son-of-a-bitch
might have even broken a bone with that big-ass stick. Thankfully,
Bonaparte still had use of his left arm and this idiot had leaned in
just close enough trying to kick him. Bonaparte dealt out a left hook
with a ton of weight behind it, along with an equal helping of anger.
If he hadn't loosened a few of this guy's teeth it would be a
miracle.

Xavier absorbed the left hook
like a champ. His definition of champ, of course, meaning he didn't
go down. However, the assassin wasted no time jumping onto Xavier's
back and pushing him to the ground. He caught Xavier too far from the
right which prevented him from straddling Xavier altogether. They
clamped on to each other and their fists pumped back-and-forth,
in-and-out, in short concentrated jabs. Xavier fought, like the
devil, to get the upper hand. After a few seconds, he got the
assassin on his back and shoved a forearm under his chin.