Zane turned to his men. “Get out there and kill Stone!”
He yanked the revolver from his holster and shoved it into the chest of one of the mercenaries armed only with blades. “Put a bullet through his heart, or I’ll pull yours from your chest.”
The man accepted the weapon and stood straighter, answering with a nod before turning to follow the rest of the soldiers.
* * *
Curtis swept the muzzle of the rifle around the corner, slicing it into sections as he moved laterally. “Clear.”
John turned into the hallway, staying close to the wall as Curtis matched his steps on the other side. He glanced up at the ceiling and held a hand up for John to stop.
Pointing to the dome mounted into the wooden slats running down the length of the corridor, Curtis turned to John. “It’s a good bet that Blanchard knows we’re here.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll find the courage to come out and meet us, so we don’t have to waste any more time playing hide and seek,” John said, moving forward.
Curtis brought his weapon up and joined him. At the end of the hall, the path opened up to a spacious dining room. A set of double doors opened up to an equally large study. John and Curtis reached the dining table, moving down its length on either side.
“Do you hear that?” John asked.
“Welcoming party,” Curtis said as the footfalls of men in a hurry thumped from outside of the library.
They ran forward, hunkering down behind the walls containing the sliding double doors. The first of the enemy soldiers stepped into the study, firing his weapon at the intruders. More men joined, adding their shots to the barrage.
Curtis propped a foot out for support and leaned far enough to get a good line of sight on the attackers. His weapon cracked twice. One of the rounds found its mark, hitting a mercenary in the shoulder. The man grunted and stumbled, staggering back.
“We don’t have sufficient cover to keep this fight going,” Curtis said. “These walls aren’t going to hold up much longer.”
John responded with a quick nod and lunged out into the open, grabbing one of the dining chairs as he pulled back. Bullets splintered the table, shattering plates and scattering the silverware. Curtis popped out and squeezed off another pair of rounds, but the return fire forced him back.
John whipped the chair through the air with a shout. The hardwood projectile hurtled across the library barely missing one of the mercenaries as he rolled to the side. Before the enemy could suppress John, he was already out in the open, rushing the closest attacker.
One of the soldiers stood up from behind his cover and took aim at John. Curtis beat him to the punch and fired the last three rounds in his magazine before he also rushed into the study.
John reached the closest foe, forcing the barrel offline as he pushed the weapon into the mercenary’s body, driving him backward. Bullets ripped through the human shield as his allies continued shooting at the wall of flesh and bone bearing down on them. John gritted his teeth as one of the bullets dug into his side.
He turned the man to one side and drove a foot into his chest, ripping the gun from his foe’s grasp and sending his body into another mercenary.
With most of the attention on John, Curtis reached the injured man he had shot seconds before. The man winced as he rose to a knee and tried to raise his weapon. Curtis tossed his empty AK at the man’s chest. His foe attempted to block the incoming chunk of stamped steel and wood, sending his own shots into the ceiling.
Curtis thrust his knee forward, hammering the man across the side of his face, slamming his head into the small chair-side table in the middle of the room. He grabbed the rifle and dropped to a crouch next to the high backed leather seat.
John had the AK tucked against his body as he swept the muzzle to the side, spraying back and forth with three short bursts. Curtis leaned out and fired a long burst, shredding the wall where one of the men had taken cover.
Another attacker fell to their counter-offensive. The last two soldiers turned to flee. John sprinted to the exit of the study, leading to a long corridor. He had his weapon shouldered and thundering as he reached the hall. Curtis was close behind, lending his support to the task.
Their rounds punched holes into the slower of the two, ripping through his body and tagging the lead man. He shouted in pain and fell face first, sliding across the hardwood flooring. The mercenary struggled to turn over, clutching a pistol in one hand as he tried to scramble away.
John and Curtis stalked him, moving down the hall as the man continued working the trigger, the handgun bucking wildly until the slide locked back.
With a snap of his boot, John sent the pistol bouncing away. He pinned the man to the ground, pressing the muzzle against his sternum.
“Blanchard. Where is he?”
The man spat at John, a mix of blood and saliva. The rifle boomed twice in the tight space. John eased the bolt open, checking the chamber before dropping the empty weapon.
“I’m out too,” Curtis said, leaning his AK-74 against the wall. “This guy has a lot of knives, though.”
“Help yourself,” John said. “I’m going after Blanchard.”
Curtis knelt next to the man, patting his pockets and pulling out a ring of keys. “This could come in handy. In case our friend decided to lock himself in his room.”
CHAPTER
31
The end of the corridor led to a staircase, spiraling down. John leaned over the rail to get a better angle to see where it ended.
“The kid outside did say he was down below,” Curtis said.
“This is most likely where the other two mercs were headed,” John said. “It’s our best bet.”
He started down, placing each boot flat before shifting his weight, reducing the thumping on each step. Curtis did the same, following John’s pace.
“It smells like a zoo down there,” Curtis said. “I think I hear something growling or chuckling. I can’t tell which.”
“Hyenas,” John said as he reached the bottom.
The vast underground level was rustic. Wood and earth, lit by warm bulbs mimicking torchlights. Burly wooden beams rose up at regular intervals, supporting the house above.
John descended into an arena carved out in the center, with seating around a portion of the perimeter. It was a broad flat circular area with short, hip-high walls, separating the combatants inside from the spectators.
Curtis circled around, walking the length of an enclosure with a pack of hyenas inside, licking their chops, huffing and circling. “I think it’s their dinner time.”
John came up on the other side of the arena, near a short hallway ending at a solid oak door, reinforced with steel bands. There were small cells built into the walls on either side.
“Curtis,” John said, peering into the first cell.
“I’m on it,” Curtis said, fishing the keys from his pocket.
The bars rattled as a pair of weathered hands grabbed the cell door, shaking it. “Please. Get us out of here before he returns.”
Curtis fumbled and singled out one of the keys. “That’s the idea. Just sit tight, and we’ll have you out of here. How many of you are there?”
“About nine or ten,” John said, walking to the end of the corridor to check every cell. “You need to hurry.”
“Score,” Curtis said, pulling the gate open. The man stepped out, grabbing his shoulders.
“Thank you. Thank you,” he said.
His skin pulled tight against his limbs, making his joints appear almost larger than the muscles on his bones. The man’s cheeks were sucked in, and his clothes were at least two sizes too big.
“There are more doors than keys on this ring, so I think we’re in luck,” Curtis said. “This key probably works on all of the doors.”
He unlocked the next cell to confirm his suspicion, then handed the key to the first man he had let out. “Get your friends free.”
The clacking of tumblers and jingling keys recede
d into the background as Curtis joined John.
“This is sick,” Curtis said. “What kind of monster locks people up like this to use for entertainment?”
“Don’t worry,” John said. “We’re here to put Blanchard down like the rabid animal he is.”
“Speaking of, do you think our little hunting buddy is locked in there?” Curtis asked.
“Possibly.” John pressed a hand flat on the oak slats braced together with steel bands and rivets.
“Once all of the cells are opened, we’ll just grab the keys and let ourselves in.”
“There’s no place for a key,” John said. “It’s an electronic lock.” He tapped a slim steel box protruding from the wall next to the door.
“That’s all of them,” the skinny man said. The crowd behind him were also in various states of malnutrition, but none as bad as he was.
“Let’s go,” John said. “We’ll figure out how to reach Blanchard once they’re safe.”
“You are here for the Hyena?” one of the men asked. “Please, let me help.” He stopped, letting the others pass by as they ran through the arena.
John walked around him too. “No. You need to get home to your friends and family. We’ll take care of the Hyena.”
“I just want to see the look on his face when—”
The man’s words were cut off as a leather lash snared his leg.
Zane took a step back and jerked the whip hard, pulling the man’s legs out from underneath him. “See the look on his face when what?”
John spun and saw the door at the far end of the corridor swinging shut as Blanchard peered out. The villager on the ground freed his leg as the bullwhip cracked, splitting the air as well as the flesh on the man’s calf.
He clutched the wound screaming. John ran over to help him, lifting to his feet with ease and retreating before the whip struck again. The end of the leather snapped, just missing as they backed away.
“Curtis, get them out of here,” John said.
Wrapping his arm around the man’s waist, Curtis was already there, helping him as they rejoined the rest of the group.
John turned to face Zane.
“They won’t get far,” Zane said. “Once I peel the flesh from your bones, I’ll track them down. If any make it back to their homes, I’ll be sure to extract a little extra payment from their families.”
* * *
John stole a glance over his shoulder, to make sure Curtis got the men upstairs. He squared up with his opponent, flexing his hands and balling them up into fists. Zane smiled, gathering the length of braided leather into a loose coil, laying it at his feet.
“Shall we?” Zane asked, tossing his aviator sunglasses to the side.
He wound his arm in a large circle, pulling the whip into an arc. Cutting back through the motion, Zane sent the end screaming forward. John lunged to his side, avoiding the mini sonic boom. Pushing off his right leg, he drove forward toward his foe.
Zane’s skill with the unconventional weapon caught John off-guard as the man pulled the whip into another quick arc. John winced as the leather snapped into his arm, slicing the flesh where it struck.
Continuing his rush, he quartered the distance between them. Zane’s footwork won some of the space back, but not enough to keep the weapon in the fight. The whip cracked over John’s head, well behind the intended target.
John covered the remaining ground, launching a cannonball right hand. Again, his opponent’s skill with the whip surprised him as Zane pulled a short section above the handle taught, using it to deflect the punch.
He launched a counter-attack, aiming for John’s temple with the butt end of the handle. Sinking his stance enough to rock his body underneath the blow, John dug a left hook into his foe’s gut. The strike sent the man reeling as he staggered back.
Immediately both men saw the distance between them open up. Before John could bridge the gap, the whip was already slicing through the air. Gauging the range, Zane wound the end around John’s ankle. He grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled hard enough to steal John’s balance, dropping him.
Shuffling back, Zane had his weapon circling overhead once more. John rolled away, cursing to himself mid-maneuver for not trying to close the distance.
The searing burn lanced through his nerves as the bullwhip tore a two-inch jagged wound across his left scapula, ripping both shirt and flesh. John pushed the pain away and rose to his feet, eyes burning with fury as he focused his rage on his opponent.
Zane’s smile faltered for a split-second before he lashed out again. John stepped back, leaning away to avoid the first strike, reading the movements of his foe’s arm and tracking the path of the weapon. Timing his moves, John stepped in as the second attack spiraled in.
John brought his arm up, lunging forward to get inside of the dangerous tip of the bullwhip. The leather wrapped around his forearm and John snatched the middle with the same hand. He pulled, reeling his foe in.
Zane’s feet struggled to find purchase as he slid across the dirt floor in the arena. He released his grip on the weapon before John could get his hands on him.
“What’s the matter, you don’t like sharing your toys?” John asked, unwinding the end from his arm as he dropped the whip.
Expecting the man to flee, he took a step forward. Zane’s attack nearly caught John off-guard as the man snapped a low roundhouse kick. When John stepped away to avoid the attack, Zane's foot continued its arc, snapping back as a hook kick that struck John in the side of the head.
He’s using his feet like he uses that whip, John thought, half-amused. Turning to face his opponent again, John felt a boot drive into his stomach. He absorbed the blow, spraying flecks of spittle through gritted teeth, but before Zane could pull the foot away, John clamped a hand around his ankle.
John wound up, ready to deliver another right cross. When his foe brought his arms up to try and cushion the blow, John arced the punch downward, into the meaty outside of Zane’s thigh.
He let out a grunt of pain and tried to pull away, but John hammered away with another blow to the same spot. His leg spasmed and John lost his grip on the leg as the man crumpled to the ground.
Stalking the man, John strode forward. He grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him up to his feet. On unsteady legs, Zane hobbled back. John saw that he was going for the whip again. He smiled and reached out to pull the man back.
The flash of steel caught the light of one of the fake torches. Zane pulled a small revolver from his belt, firing from retention. The bullet grazed John but tore more cloth than skin. John clamped a hand around the man's wrist before he could pull the trigger again.
He wrapped his other hand around the grip of the handgun and squeezed. The fingers underneath his shifted and popped as Zane’s mouth fell agape, only a low rumble escaping.
Tossing the revolver away and releasing his foe, John watched the man fall to the ground, crawling the last few feet to retrieve the bullwhip. Zane struggled to climb back to his feet, but before he could pull the weapon into an arc, John grabbed the free end and dragged the man close.
Winding the leather around his neck, John grabbed both ends of the whip and spun his foe around, tightening it around Zane’s neck. John kept applying pressure until he was supporting the man’s full body weight. Relaxing his grip, Zane’s dead body dropped into a heap.
John spotted the key card on the man’s belt and bent down to pluck it free. He rose slowly and looked down the corridor, at the reinforced door at the far end.
Standing over his kill, John let his gaze climb up to one of the ceiling-mounted cameras. “How does it feel, Blanchard? How does it feel to be hunted?”
CHAPTER
32
In the cold air, the burns and cuts registered in John’s mind. He sucked in deep breaths through flared nostrils as he walked toward the corridor. His boots scraped along the dirt floor as he stepped out of the arena. John looked down at the key card, turning it over in his fingers. He
shifted his gaze toward the steel box next to the door.
“Looks like I missed all of the fun,” Curtis said.
He walked along the outer perimeter of the large circular clearing, weaving between the chairs for the spectators in Blanchard’s twisted little Colosseum.
“You’re here in time for the dessert,” John said, holding up the card.
Curtis took the card, pinching it between his index and middle fingers. “Is he in there?”
“That looks like the only way in or out. Unless he’s got a secret tunnel,” John said. “But I don’t think he ever expected someone in here coming to get him.”
A faint beep and click pulled John’s attention away.
“Look out!” He lunged to the side, pulling Curtis clear.
The walls and columns around them shook as the massive .454 Casull revolver boomed. Damien rushed down the corridor, thumbing the hammer back and shouted his incoherent rage. Stepping into the open, he took aim with his outstretched arm, squeezing the trigger.
John and Curtis split up, avoiding his line of fire. The revolver’s recoil snapped Damien’s wrist back as his arm bent to absorb the powerful shot. Before he could fire again, John moved behind one of the wooden support beams, pressing his body against it.
The air pulsed out again as the hand cannon thundered. A chunk of the wood tore free, like a jungle cat had taken a bite from it. Bits of dirt and rock sprinkled down on John’s head and neck. He leaned his body out from the other side, tracking Blanchard’s movement.
Damien’s eyes lit up as he saw John peering out. His arm stretched out again, taking aim as he moved forward. Before the pistol barked, a length of leather snapped out, winding around his hand and wrist. Something yanked him to the side, out of John’s line of sight.
He hit the hard-packed dirt with a sharp exhale, puffing out in a cloud of dust. The revolver slid along the ground inside the arena where Curtis stood, still holding the bullwhip. John stepped out and closed the distance as Damien scrambled to his feet.
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