The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

He kept coming closer, brandishing his long knife, a big smile on his face.

  I stepped back, and he smiled wider. He was really having fun.

  He moved closer, slicing the air with his knife.

  I stepped back again, and he closed the gap.

  He let me know, "If you turn and run, I will shoot your legs out from under you, then butcher you."

  "I'm not running."

  "No, but you are stepping backward. Come to me. Fight like a man."

  "You have the knife, asshole. Put it down."

  He flipped the knife into the air, then caught it by its handle and smiled again.

  He was really enjoying this, and to be honest, I was not. I knew this guy could slice me up if I made a move toward him, so I again backed off. It was time to end his fun, so I reminded him, "Your mother was a whore."

  He screamed something and charged at me.

  I turned, took a running step, pretended to slip in the mud, then drew my knife and spun around on my knees and let him run into the K-bar, which caught him in his groin.

  He let out a surprised scream and backpedaled away as I charged in for the kill before he went for his gun.

  He had his knife hand over his groin and his other hand was reaching for the Glock as he backpedaled, and he lost his footing in the mud and fell backward.

  The only move I had was to dive on him to keep him away from the Glock, and I made a running jump and landed full on his chest as he was starting to raise his legs to catapult me into the air.

  I saw his arm coming around, and I felt his knife cutting into the back of my shoulder blade, scraping across the bone.

  His arm was rising again for another stab, and I grabbed his wrist. I kept the full weight of my body on him as he struggled to get me off him and get his knife hand free.

  My knife hand was free, and his left hand was free, but instead of reaching for his gun, he made the right decision to grab my arm before I got my blade into his face or throat.

  He got a tight grip on my wrist, then lifted his head and got his teeth into my cheek and bit down hard on the maxillary nerve, which sent flashes of pain through my head.

  He was still holding my wrist, but I managed to get my arm up, and I brought the butt end of the heavy K-bar down on the top of his head.

  He released his bite on my cheek, and I twisted my hand to bring the business end of the knife into the top of his skull, but he was incredibly strong and he pulled my arm away and held it.

  So we were locked together, neither of us able to use our knives, and this would go on until one of us weakened, or did something unexpected-or desperate.

  He was in very good physical shape, and he didn't seem to be tiring as we each tried to break free from the other's grip.

  He tried a few times to get his knee in my groin, but he had no leverage, and I kept my full weight on him. Then he tried to get his teeth into my face again, but I kept my head tilted back.

  I had no idea where I'd stuck him. Genitals? Thigh? Lower abdomen? But I knew the wound wasn't bleeding enough to weaken him. My own wound felt warm and wet, but I didn't think he'd done too much damage.

  We made eye contact and stared at each other. I said, "You're going to die."

  He shook his head and said, "You."

  His voice was still baritone so I guess I'd missed his nuts.

  As we struggled, I realized he wasn't weakening at all, but I was, and he knew that, so he was waiting me out. Time to do something.

  I gave him a head butt, but it didn't cause him any more pain than it did me. He retaliated by trying to get his teeth on my face again, which is what I wanted him to do. I clamped my teeth on his big hooked nose, and I bit down as hard as I've ever bitten on anything. Before he screamed, I felt his cartilage cracking under my teeth and I tasted the blood oozing out of his nose and into my mouth.

  He was in real pain now, so he barely noticed that I'd released my bite on his nose. I spit blood into his left eye, and when the eyelid closed, I got my teeth on it and ripped at it.

  I spit more blood in his eyes and said quietly, "I'm gonna eat your fucking face."

  He spit back at me, then managed to get a bite out of my chin.

  A man in great pain and great danger has super strength-adrenaline-charged muscle power-and Khalil arched his body up with me on top, which gave him the leverage he needed to go into a rolling motion, trying to reverse our positions and get on top of me. I lost my grip on his knife hand, and he immediately brought his knife down into my back again, slicing into my rib cage.

  He would have stabbed me again, but I suddenly relaxed my muscles, and he found himself going through the rest of his twist and roll without resistance, and this put him unexpectedly face-first into the ground with me on his back. His knife hand was free, but he couldn't use it from that position, and he tried to scramble away, but I came down heavy, and he collapsed on his chest and stomach. Both my hands were free now, and I pulled his head back by his long hair and slashed his throat, then pushed his face into the mud. He didn't make a move or a sound, but my instincts said he wasn't finished.

  In fact, his arm slid under his body, and I knew he was going for his gun. I got there first and snatched the gun out of his belt, and because you don't want a gun in play this close, I jumped off him and stepped back.

  I stood there, breathing hard, keeping my eye on him.

  The stadium lights were shining in my eyes, and my stocking feet were buried in the mud. A worse problem was that the wetness was spreading over my back, and it felt warm in the cool night air.

  I realized that Khalil's second stab had gone deeper than I thought, and I was losing blood.

  My head was getting light, and I felt my knees giving out, then I found myself kneeling on the ground.

  Khalil was moving now, and I watched as he rose slowly to his feet.

  His back was to me, but I saw him wiping his face with his hands, then he turned around, saw me, and began walking toward me.

  His face and clothes were covered with mud, but I could see the blood on his throat and his shirt, and I realized that the blood wasn't gushing the way it should have if I'd hit his jugular or carotid.

  He spotted his knife on the ground, picked it up, and kept coming toward me.

  Die, you sonofabitch.

  I stood too quickly, and I felt light-headed again. I thought I was going to pass out, but I took a few deep breaths and kept still so my heart wouldn't start pumping more blood out of me.

  Khalil kept coming, holding his knife in front of him.

  When he was less than ten feet from me, he said, "Your face."

  Well, I didn't want him to deface me, and as far as I was concerned, the knife fight was over. So I raised Kate's Glock and pointed it at him. My arm was unsteady, and again I thought I was going to black out.

  I said, "Drop the knife."

  I noticed that the Glock was totally covered with mud, and I wasn't sure it was going to fire, and neither was he. I said, "Drop it, asshole," but I didn't really want him to drop it. I should have had no trouble just pulling the trigger, but… I couldn't do that; I wanted him to earn his bullet.

  He took a few more steps, then sunk to his knees.

  It was over, but it's not over until it's over-and he was still holding his knife pointed at me.

  I would have waited it out, but I was starting to get that old bleeding-to-death feeling that I remembered too well, so I had to put the final nail in this bastard… I aimed at his head and squeezed on the trigger, but then I stopped and looked at him. I lowered the gun and shoved it in my belt.

  Again, Khalil stood, and he did the zombie walk with his knife pointing the way toward me.

  I took a deep breath, then lunged at him with my knife, parrying his arm away as I brought the K-bar up in an underhand motion. The blade sliced through the bottom of his chin, through his mouth and into his palate, where it stuck. I let go of the knife and stepped back.

  His eyes widened, and he tried to spea
k or scream, but I think the blade must have passed through his tongue, and he just made a few unintelligible sounds as blood ran out of his mouth.

  He started choking, then amazingly he took another step toward me, and we made eye contact, not three feet apart.

  I looked into his eyes. One eye was filled with blood where I'd ripped his eyelid, but the other was bright and burning, and it stared at me.

  The handle of my K-bar knife was stuck up to the hilt under his chin, and he looked like he'd sprouted a strange goatee.

  I said to him, "My wife is alive. I am alive. You are dead."

  He kept staring at me, then he shook his head.

  I saw weird green-and-yellow stuff oozing out of his mouth and nose-maybe mucus from his sinus cavity, or maybe this guy was from outer space.

  Asad Khalil was dead, but he wasn't finished dying, and I wasn't feeling so well myself.

  So we both stood there, a few feet apart, our eyes fixed on each other, and I had the sense that this was a contest of wills-who was going to drop first?

  Well, it wasn't going to be me. I managed to keep standing, even though my head was starting to spin.

  Khalil suddenly seemed aware that he had a problem, and his right hand came up and grabbed the handle of the knife stuck under his chin.

  Well, nobody but me touches Uncle Ernie's combat knife, so I hauled off and smashed him in the face.

  He went down, and I knew he wasn't getting up again, so I let myself fall to my knees.

  Then I crawled over to Khalil, turned, and dropped my head and shoulders on his chest to keep my wounds elevated.

  I could feel his chest still rising and falling.

  I stared up at the sky and felt a light drizzle on my face, which felt good.

  I found my cell phone and called 911. I said to the dispatcher, "Ten-thirteen…" Officer in trouble. I IDed myself and gave her my shield number, then using cop lingo to make this sound real, I said, "I need a bus, forthwith," an ambulance-now. I gave her the location and had to repeat it, then I said, "Look for the… big semi… Carlino Masonry… yeah… let's be quick."

  I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing and my beating heart. This was going to be close.

  Within five minutes, I heard sirens up on Church Street, then a minute later I felt Khalil's chest heave and stop.

  I turned my head and looked at Vince Paresi dangling from the big crane. I took a deep breath and said to him, "It's over, Captain-we won."

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I didn't want to go to the closest hospital-I wanted to go to Bellevue, so that's where the EMS ambulance headed.

  I had pressure bandages on my wounds and two saline drips in my arms, and I was feeling terrific. Let's do that again.

  Actually, I was sort of drifting in and out, but I remember getting to Bellevue and I remember letting the emergency room staff know that my wife was a patient in the security ward-then I don't remember much.

  The sun was coming through the window, and hanging from the window cord was a stuffed lion.

  I was pretty sure this wasn't a dream, and the room definitely looked familiar.

  Someone was squeezing my hand, and I turned my head to see Kate standing beside my bed. She was wearing the white blouse and blue skirt I'd brought her, and it took me a few seconds to process that.

  She smiled and asked me, "How are you, handsome?"

  I didn't know how I was, but I replied, "Not bad." I added, "You should see the other guy." He's dead.

  She forced a smile and said, "You're going to be fine."

  "Good." But I can't go to Minnesota.

  She had tears in her eyes, and she bent over and kissed my cheek-right where Khalil had bitten into my nerve. Ouch!

  I put my hand there and felt a bandage, then another bandage where the asshole took a bite out of my chin. Then, not quite being able to separate what happened from a bad dream, I did the guy thing and felt for the jewels. One, two, exclamation mark. One more time-one, two- "Are you okay? What hurts there?"

  "Nothing." I found the bed control and raised myself into a sitting position.

  I had tubes and wires attached to me, and I checked out the monitors, which looked okay. I was starting to experience that euphoria you get when the Grim Reaper just missed you, and I leaned forward and said, "I want to get out of here."

  Kate informed me, "The doctor said three or four days-but I told him a week."

  Not funny.

  She further informed me, "You lost some blood, but they gave you a refill." She added, "I told the neurologist you were mentally impaired before the blood loss, so he shouldn't expect much when he evaluates you."

  What did I do to deserve this sarcasm?

  Kate held a cup of ice water to my lips and I took a sip. I noticed now that her bed was still in the room, and I asked her, "You staying?"

  "No, you're staying. I'm leaving."

  "Yeah?" I lay back on the bed, and even with the painkillers, I could feel where I'd taken the two knife cuts. In fact, my whole body ached. This sucked.

  I stared up at the ceiling for a while, then I said, "Khalil's dead."

  "I know."

  "Vince Paresi is dead. Khalil killed him."

  A silence, then, "I know."

  She was crying again, and to be honest, I felt a little lump in my throat. I had no idea how Khalil had killed Vince, but I hoped it was quick.

  She pulled up a chair, took my hand, and we sat there for a while.

  Finally, she said to me, "Tom is at the… crime scene. He's coming to visit later."

  "I'm not receiving visitors named Tom."

  "John… he wants to see you, and… congratulate you."

  "No photos."

  She didn't reply to that, but said to me, "When you're ready to talk about it… I want to know what happened."

  I was ready to talk about it now, but I knew I'd be telling the same story at least twenty times to half the Justice Department-not to mention Tom Walsh-so I said, "When I get home." I added, "You can help me with my incident report."

  She smiled and said, "Don't puff yourself up."

  I smiled.

  I was actually hungry, and I asked her, "What's for breakfast?"

  "Jail-O."

  "What happened to the hard labor boiled eggs?"

  She squeezed my hand tight, stood and gave me a teary kiss on my forehead-right where I head-butted the asshole. Ouch!

  She looked at me and said, "I want you home with me."

  "Me too." I asked, "Where are my clothes?"

  She replied, "Probably in an evidence bag."

  "Where's my gun?"

  "Tom said they have it, and they recovered my gun, too."

  "Good." I was going to ask her where Uncle Ernie's knife was, but the last time I saw it, it was sticking out of Asad Khalil's chin-so by now it was downstairs in the morgue where the medical examiner was tugging at it, trying to decide if he should pull it out before or after he cut open Khalil's skull.

  Kate and I chatted a bit, and we agreed that I needed a few weeks at home so I could recuperate quietly. I expressed my deep disappointment that we couldn't see her parents or mine in the foreseeable future, and she knew I was full of crap, but she couldn't say that to a man in my delicate condition. I also informed her, "The E.R. doctor said no skydiving for five years."

  Breakfast came at about 7:30, and apparently I was on a liquid diet that didn't resemble my usual liquid diet.

  Kate chowed down on pancakes and sausages. She asked me, "Would you like more confine mint tea?"

  This wasn't as funny as I'd thought when she was lying here.

  Anyway, I sat in bed thinking about Vince Paresi and even Boris, who I liked on some level. Boris and I had agreed that he was capable of handling Asad Khalil, but obviously we'd been wrong about that-and we both should have known we were wrong. And on that subject, what the hell was I thinking when I thought I wanted Asad Khalil all for myself? Well, it worked out… barely.

 
; I asked Kate, "Have you heard anything about Boris?"

  She shook her head and said, "Why do you ask?"

  "I think Khalil killed him."

  She didn't respond, but she was probably thinking what I was thinking-I should have reported my contact with Boris to Tom Walsh. Not only would Boris probably still be alive, but if the surveillance team had grabbed Khalil in Brighton Beach, I could have saved myself some excitement at the WTC site-not to mention a few days in the hospital.

  Also, Vince Paresi would still be alive.

  Well, in this business, you call it like you see it, and as I said, you live-or die-with the consequences.

  I wasn't going to beat myself up with this any more than I was going to beat myself up for not thinking about Gabe Haytham in time to save him and his family. The bad guy here was Asad Khalil, and people like him, and those who helped him, and everyone who celebrated death and not life.

  Bottom line here-I killed Asad Khalil, so he wasn't going to trial or to prison, and he wouldn't be haunting our dreams anymore. But there are more of them.

  I asked Kate, "Did you hear anything about the Port Authority cops? The ones who were in the PA trailer?"

  She replied, "Tom mentioned that there were two of them-a male and female-but they haven't been found." She added, "I don't want to talk about this now."

  I nodded, but this was still on my mind. My mind, however, was in happy pill land, and I needed to focus on something that was bothering me about this.

  It was certainly possible that someone like Asad Khalil could get the drop on two cops who weren't expecting trouble. But what did he do with the bodies?

  It would make sense that Khalil had help at this critical moment-maybe one or two other guys to kill the cops and to get rid of the bodies… and hang Vince from the crane.

  But when I saw Khalil, he was alone. So if he had accomplices, where were they? Disposing of the bodies? Or did Khalil, true to his M.O., kill them, too?

  And all of this brought me back to what had been on my mind all week. Did Khalil have something else planned? Based on just what I saw in the apartment on 72nd Street, Khalil obviously had accomplices and resources here, so he probably had a favor to repay. And what was it? And was it still in the works?