The Double Eagle (38 page)

2:10
P.M.

A
s Tom turned, Corbett kicked out and caught his hand with the side of his shoe. The gun flew through the air and landed with a noisy rattle on the floor behind him. In the same movement, Corbett turned on his heel and sprinted toward the stairs.

“Ah, Corbett,” said Clarke when he saw him running toward him. “I thought I heard someone down here.” He pointed at Max’s body. “Is this Kirk’s work?”

Corbett elbowed him out the way without breaking his stride and Clarke’s head hit the marble wall with a thump. He slumped to the floor.

“Quick,” said Tom. “Give me a leg up.”

Jennifer cupped her hands and Tom stepped up onto them until he could reach the rim of the balustrade above. He hauled himself up and crouched there until he heard the clatter of Corbett’s heels reaching the top of the stairs. Tom jumped up onto the balustrade as Corbett came past and threw himself at him, his arms wrapping around Corbett’s waist and then sliding down to his ankles, toppling him like a rolled-up carpet.

Corbett was up in a flash, catching Tom on the side of his face with a heavy blow that made his face sting. Tom rolled to his feet, adrenaline pumping, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, and placed himself between Corbett and the exit. Corbett stood, fists raised, his eyes flicking uncertainly between Tom and the door, clearly trying to assess how likely he was to get past him.

“Be my guest,” said Tom.

With a roar, Corbett launched himself at Tom, lashing out with a series of well-aimed kicks and punches that Tom blocked with his arms before striking out himself and catching Corbett on the left cheekbone, sending him sprawling. On his hands and knees now, Corbett lifted his head toward Tom, his eyes ablaze.

He stood up and took several steps back. Tom realized too late what he was doing as he unclipped the red rope from one of the mobile barriers that had been pushed up against the wall behind him and picked up one of its brass poles. With a triumphant sneer, he walked toward Tom, swinging the heavy brass pole in front of him with both hands, the thick square base swishing menacingly through the air.

Tom backed away and Corbett broke into a run, swinging the pole around his head like a claymore. Tom dodged the first two sweeps, one to his right, one to his left, but the third took him by surprise, a low sweep that caught him just behind the left knee and flipped him onto his back. Corbett immediately raised the pole above his head and brought it crashing down. Tom rolled one way and then the other just in time as the heavy brass base struck the marble twice, sending large chunks of the polished stone spinning through the air. He kicked out and caught Corbett in the stomach, momentarily winding him and sending him staggering back.

Tom scrambled to his feet and ran to the other pole, unclipping the rope from it and picking it up, flipping it between his hands as he tried to get used to the weight. The two men circled each other warily, both looking for an opening.

Corbett made the first move, taking a wild swing at Tom’s head. Tom parried the blow, the two brass poles crashing together with a metallic clang that echoed back off the painted dome like a bell. He immediately struck back catching Corbett on his arm. Corbett shouted with pain; he stumbled backward and then charged again, swinging the pole backward and forward. Tom defended himself desperately as he was driven back toward the marble balustrade, the brass poles clashing again and again and again, until his hands were numb from the vibrations.

Sensing the balustrade behind him Tom jumped up onto it and Corbett leaped forward, swinging at Tom’s legs. Tom jumped up, the pole swinging harmlessly under his feet and then again as it came back the other way. But the momentum of the second swing seemed to throw Corbett slightly off-balance and Tom kicked out, catching him across his already bloodied and broken nose. Corbett shrieked with pain and dropped his pole as his hands flew to his face. Tom jumped down and booted the pole across the room, then threw his own after it.

Corbett looked up at him, eyes streaming, hair wild, blood dripping from his nose, his suit ripped and dirty. With a final, desperate roar, Corbett propelled himself across the few feet that separated them. Tom threw himself to the floor and tripped him, Corbett’s face flicking from hate to surprise as he fell heavily.

Tom was on his back immediately and wrapped his arm around his neck in a choke hold. He tightened his grip as Corbett began to cough, slapping Tom’s forearm like a capitulating wrestler as he struggled to get his breath.

Tom slowly lifted Corbett’s head back toward him, felt his struggling get more desperate as the ligaments in his neck began to stretch and tear and the vertebrae grind against each other, crushing his spinal column.

Some faint memory from his CIA training flashed into his head: that it requires only six pounds of pressure to break a human neck.