by Bill Brewer
“What?” asked the confused giant.
“God damn, wasn’t that the worst thing ever? What the fuck did they do to you?”
“Whatever I touched, it burned me. And fire”—the big guy gestured upward with his charred hands—“came up through the floor.”
“Sounds like a live barbeque.”
Brutus was bewildered by Diegert’s sarcasm. The big guy stared at the side of Diegert’s neck. Diegert followed his eyes and placed his hand on the side of his neck, where he felt a fat, fluid-filled leech. He pulled it off, leaving an oozing sore.
“I had hundreds of these things on me in that house. There’s a deep hole they filled with sewage. I almost drowned in a pit of shit.”
Brutus sneered at the thought, but then looked at Diegert menacingly from beneath the place where he used to have eyebrows.
“We can plan our team strategy now,” Diegert said matter-of-factly.
“What?” questioned the big man, who had to put the brakes on his intent to kill.
“I think with your police skills and my communication and negotiations, we can win this thing.”
“It is kill or be killed,” belched Brutus.
Diegert could see the perplexed look on the man’s scarred and disfigured face. “Oh, come on, you’re not falling for that. That’s misinformation. They’re just testing to see if we are smart enough to realize that we can accomplish a whole lot more working together than apart.”
“No, kill everybody.”
“Oh really? Now does that make sense? Put a group of the world’s most highly trained assassins together and then have them kill each other. When did that plan start making sense to you?”
“Never,” said Brutus as the release of that thought unweighted his shoulders.
“Exactly! They want us to think. To demonstrate that we can use the resources available to us to do more than we could ever do alone; right now, those resources are each other.”
“So what now?”
“Come here.”
Diegert knelt down and brushed away leaves and pine needles clearing some dirt. He drew with his fingers in the dirt. Brutus kneeled down next to him with his machete blade in the dirt upon which he leaned for support. Diegert watched how slowly the big guy moved and how each point of contact brought a wince of pain from the charred hands and arms. He could also see large sections of clothing were burned off the guy’s back.
Pointing with his fingers to his drawings, Diegert began, “We’re right here, and I think the other guys are over here. Now, if they are coming this way, we can isolate them in these buildings and try talking to them, and if that doesn’t work, then this is a very defensible position.”
“I don’t know. This is very different from what they told me.”
“Really?”
Diegert swung his hand back and knocked the machete out from under the weight Brutus was placing on the weapon. He grabbed the back of the big guy’s neck and drove his face forward. Brutus let out a scream of pain as his sensitive skin hit the dirt. The big Bulgarian swung a powerful left arm out at Diegert, but when his fist made contact, the pain was so severe that Brutus fell to the left and rolled on his back, covering his injured left hand with his burned right one.
Diegert grabbed the machete while Brutus writhed in pain. He stood above the pitifully damaged man. Brutus swung his right leg and shrieked when his burned shin collided with Diegert’s stable leg. He closed his eyes and grimaced as the pain from the bare muscle exploded in his brain.
Diegert watched the suffering and could only imagine the infection he would develop as a result of rolling in the dirt. His skin would never grow back, and he would need several square yards of grafts to be whole again. The former police sergeant stared at Diegert with the only two spots on his face that weren’t burned and said, “Kill or be killed?”
Diegert nodded his head as he held the machete to Brutus’s throat. “Don’t move.”
Diegert checked the man’s pockets for valuables. In the left front pocket, there was a circular metallic object. Diegert pulled it out and pressed a button on the top, opening the cover to reveal a timepiece. On the inside cover was a photo of Brutus seated with his young wife and two children. Diegert looked at the boy and girl and slowly closed the watch, putting it back in the man’s pocket.
“Nice family.”
Brutus clenched his teeth, saying nothing.
Checking the cargo pockets on the legs, he found a fully loaded ten-round magazine of 9 mm bullets. Not much good without a gun, but he put it in his pocket. With the machete still pressed to the throat of Brutus, he stood back up.
“Get up,” he told the pain-ridden Bulgarian.
With a lot of struggle, Brutus stood, stoop shouldered and wincing. Diegert motioned with the big knife, directing Brutus to the door of the brick shithouse.
“Get in.” Brutus kept his gaze on his captor as he entered the dark interior and descended the ladder into the pit. Diegert withdrew the ladder and slammed the door, locking the man inside.
42
On the north side of the grounds, the blast of the air horn left Deiobo particularly unmotivated to move. He remained immobile in the northeast corner. The acid burns on his face, head, and body were painful and pissed him off.
Shioki could not be so patient. He was compelled to venture forth because he had endured twenty-four hours of refrigerated cold. Frigid unrelenting temperatures made worse by saturating water sprays whenever he searched for an escape route. When he stood still, a great fan came on, creating a deafening wind chill. He had frostbite on his fingers, ears, and nose. Heading south, he soon encountered a murky swamp, which quickly became impassable as he sank to his waist in the soft-bottomed ooze. Retracing his steps, he regained solid ground and proceeded to the east, moving with as much stealth as his saturated boots would allow. He kept an eye out for objects with which he could improvise a weapon.
Deiobo, by remaining still, hoped to be able to detect movement around him. When he employed this technique hunting in the jungles of Brazil, he was rewarded with a monkey or a capybara, his favorite bush meat. To his mind, there was a lot less wildlife in these woods than in Brazil, but he wasn’t looking for animals. He did, however, painfully recall his imprisonment in the concrete hut with the acidic shower that forced him to move from one square area to another. Each attempt to escape was greeted with nozzles spraying sulfuric acid on his hands, arms, and clothing. The burns were persistent, and he had no way of removing the noxious fluid from himself. It was a relief to be out of the hut, but he would be in pain throughout the tournament.
While motionless, Deiobo sensed the movement to his right. He riveted his eyes on the moving patterns of lines in the woods, and soon he was able to see shadow and form slowly progressing toward him.
Shioki had poor orientation to the grounds, but he believed he was approaching the northeast corner. He was unaware of the width of the fenced in area. Each step taken to the east brought him closer to the place from which his opponent began this deadly game. Shioki was getting more and more anxious; he didn’t want to walk into a trap. Deiobo felt he was adequately concealed up in the big-trunked tree. He realized there was a risk being elevated, but he reasoned the visual advantage was worth it. The canopy of the tree also created a cleared space under its branches so the trunk couldn’t be approached without exposure. He wished he had a weapon with which to shoot his enemy.
Shioki continued east until he reached the eastern fence, at which point he was afraid he’d crossed the path of his opponent who might now know his location. He turned suddenly with a sense of panic that he may have lost the advantage.
Deiobo watched as Shioki passed his tree. The Chinese special forces soldier never entered the clearing underneath the tree but kept to the south of the open space. Nevertheless, Deiobo was able to observe his movements, and he realized the Chinese man did not have a weapon and he distinctly heard the squishing of sodden footwear. After the soldier passed, the
convict climbed down from his tree and followed on silent feet.
He saw the soldier reach the eastern fence, and he closed the gap. As the soldier turned from the fence, the convict struck him in the chest with a driving head butt. The power of the blow stunned the soldier, evacuating his lungs, and thrusting him into the eastern chain-link barrier. The convict followed with punches to the ribs and face. The soldier took the punishment, but his training had instilled in him a series of practiced reactions. He thrust up his arms and rotated his torso, blocking the strikes to his face, allowing him to see his opponent and counter with strikes of his own. The convict was close enough that the soldier used his legs to kick his attacker in the shins and stomp on his foot. The pain forced the convict back.
The two men now squared off, remaining in their defensive stances, circling each other seeking advantage. The soldier had suffered the worst. He was breathing heavily, and the strikes to the face had created a wound above his right eyebrow. Deiobo’s right foot was sore, but his boot had prevented broken bones. He dropped his hands and moved in the wide-ranging fashion of capoeira. The soldier remained with his fists raised and his feet perpendicular, vigilant of his enemy’s movements.
Suddenly, the convict let out a loud, piercing scream, frightening the soldier, who stepped back from the strange man. The convict took the moment of surprise and ran off to the west. The soldier stood alone, looking around trying to make sense of this erratic behavior. Needing to continue his pursuit, the soldier passed under the tree canopy and found a large fallen branch. He placed the branch between two trees and, using leverage, snapped it. He now had a club as a weapon, and he moved west in the direction of the convict. Soon he found the narrow wooden bridge without side rails that traversed the swamp. He noticed wet footprints on the boards. He stopped. There was swamp water on both sides of the bridge, and the closest vegetation that might support weight was several meters to either side. His enemy must have crossed, he reasoned, and began to make his way over the bridge.
The convict remained motionless, suspending himself above the water, clinging to the underside of the bridge. Tracking the footfalls passing over him, he reached out from under the bridge tripping the soldier. The instant the soldier fell to the surface of the bridge, the convict pulled him over the side and into the dark water. He placed his hands on the struggling soldier’s shoulders, pressing down on him with all his weight. He kneed the soldier in the groin several times, inflicting not only great pain but making the man gasp for air. Those gasps sucked in the dark swamp water, which quickly filled the soldier’s lungs, drowning him within twenty seconds.
Deiobo quickly grabbed the bridge as the soft organic matter of the swamp entombed the soldier’s body. He climbed back onto the bridge, completely saturated but eager to find and kill his next opponent. Heading south across the bridge, he left the swamp behind as he walked up onto dry land. Just past the bridge, he spied an object he could hardly believe he had the good fortune to find. In the dappled light of the woods lay a Beretta 9 mm pistol. He stepped to it quickly, then hesitated. Was it a trap?
Being so obvious and inviting, he realized he might be in the crosshairs of an enemy. Pulling back, he lay down behind a fallen log. He remained still for several minutes. All was quiet. Using a long, sturdy branch, he reached out and pulled the gun to him. No booby trap. He held the gun and was delighted to have such a powerful weapon, but his happiness faded when he realized it was not loaded. Dejected, he reasoned it was better for him to have it than someone else, but it was not the lethal advantage he’d thought he’d found. Deiobo’s disappointment left him when he saw another weapon lying in the weeds. With much less caution, he stepped over to a sinister-looking item, and sneering with menace, picked it up.
Diegert, carrying his machete, had completed an exploration of one of the movie-set buildings. Finding no enemies, he exited and crossed the street to the structures on the other side and crept around to the back. He looked north, searching for his next opponent. Beyond the buildings, there was a sparsely wooded area and then the concrete block field, which held about forty blocks of concrete, each about five feet high and four foot square. The blocks were lined up in rows forming a grid. It was a big space with weeds growing up through the gravel between the blocks. Diegert thought it a very strange thing to have constructed, but maybe the tactical teams used it for some kind of specific combat training. He was about to double back and head west when he saw a man moving on the far side of the block field.
Diegert watched the man move left and pick up an object that looked like a giant silver-gray lollipop. As he observed him swinging the object, Diegert realized the man had found a weapon. It looked to be a metal shaft with a cross tube at one end upon which was affixed a sprocket gear from a bicycle and a circular saw blade. The man ducked back down, looking around.
Diegert continued to monitor the block field, seeing weeds between the blocks swaying and shaking in spite of the lack of wind. He figured the man must be crawling between the blocks, and he tracked the man’s progress through the field by watching the weeds. Diegert moved north, entered the field, and then moved west to intersect with the southern path the man was taking. Moving very slowly, Diegert was careful not to disturb the weeds as his quarry was doing. When he saw the weeds wobbling just north of the intersection where he stood, Diegert raised his machete over his head.
Deiobo, crawling quickly forward now that he could see the end of the field, heard the crunch of gravel to his left. He turned and saw a figure lunging toward him. He rolled to his right and raised his weapon. Diegert’s machete made a metallic clang as the blade struck the shaft of the junkyard mace. Deiobo crouched his legs and kicked out with as much force as he could muster, taking the feet out from under Diegert. The assassin fell forward, landing on top of the convict. His face was inches from the saw blade, but his machete and his weight disallowed the weapon to be swung. Diegert put his hand on the back side of the machete and shoved the blade forward, catching the cross tube of the mace and forcing it out of the hands of the convict.
Once the weapon handle had left his grasp, the convict kneed Diegert in the thigh and punched him in the ribs. Diegert pushed the weapons away and sought to choke the convict, who rolled to the right and pushed up off the ground, elbowing Diegert in the gut. The convict stood up, and Diegert staggered to his feet as well. The convict lunged forward with a kick to Diegert’s midsection, which Diegert blocked with his hands. The convict swung his fist, and Diegert ducked under the blow. The assassin jabbed the convict’s chest and crossed with a punch to the face. The convict fell back against a concrete block, and Diegert pinned him against the block, hyperextending his back with a chokehold on his throat. Diegert began to apply crushing pressure to the convict’s throat, when he felt a cold steel ring on his temple. The convict had a pistol to his head.
He released Deiobo and stepped back. Deiobo coughed and sputtered as he struggled to breathe, but he kept the gun pointed at Diegert and followed his movements.
“Go ahead and shoot, you pussy, I don’t give a fuck.”
The convict was still struggling to breathe and couldn’t say a thing.
“Come on, you lousy prick. Get it over with!” Standing with his arms wide open and his chest fully exposed, Diegert shouted, “Go ahead shoot me, you shithead. Shoot me, you punk ass bastard.”
Seeing the indecision in the convict’s eyes, Diegert said, “If you don’t have the guts to shoot me, then I’m gonna kill you right now.”
As Diegert approached, Deiobo tossed the gun up in the air, grabbed the barrel, and threw it. The gun hit Diegert on the forehead, gashing the skin and toppling him to the ground. Deiobo ran back and grabbed the mace. He turned to go back to Diegert, who had picked up the gun and stood back up. Deiobo looked at him, laughing.
“What are you doing, you dumb shit? The damn thing’s not loaded.”
“I know,” said Diegert as he reached into his cargo pocket, pulled out the clip, and jammed
it into the Beretta. Deiobo stood in shock with his junkyard weapon as Diegert prepared to pull on the slide to chamber a round. Diegert pulled, and the slide wouldn’t move. The slide was jammed, and the gun wouldn’t load. Deiobo smiled as he drew his arm back and charged with his dual-disc weapon. Realizing the gun was jammed, Diegert reacted to the attack. He swerved his upper body as the mace whizzed past his face and chest. He was not quick enough, though, to avoid the saw blade digging into his right thigh. The jagged cutting tool lacerated the muscle as blood sprayed from Diegert’s leg.
Deiobo tried to pull the weapon back, but it was caught in the fabric of Diegert’s pants. Standing this close, Diegert crushed Deiobo’s nose with the pistol. The blow dislodged the nasal cartilage and cracked the bones of the convict’s nose. Blood spewed out, and Deiobo was in more pain than Diegert. With the Beretta still in hand, Diegert again pulled on the slide, which slid back and snapped forward, chambering the first round. As Deiobo staggered with blood all over his face, he looked up to see Diegert pointing the gun again. He smiled, revealing his crooked yellow teeth, just before two bullets hit his chest and a third entered his head, ending his participation in the tournament.
At that instant, Diegert didn’t know if the fourth participant was still active, but having a loaded gun gave him a lot more confidence. He started to move west when the air horn, which had begun the competition, sounded. Diegert removed his belt and used it as a tourniquet on his bleeding leg. The gates opened, and teams of men entered with body bags. He was the only one going out. Outside the gate Strakov, Blevinsky, and Jaeger looked at him but offered no congratulations. Strakov barked, “You left one alive.”
“With his injuries and the shit he’s in, he’ll be dead by morning.”
Pierre and Gregor’s smiles said much more than words. Pierre slapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and Diegert felt the camaraderie, even though he realized it was awkward for the Frenchman to be so positive in front of Strakov.
