by A P Bateman
He was past care now, didn't worry unduly about the wound. All he wanted was to stem the blood flow long enough to see them both dead. After that, he didn't care, didn't even want to think that far ahead. All that mattered was killing the two targets and declaring victory over their dead bodies. He grit his teeth together tightly, fought through the pain and rose unsteadily to his feet. He picked up the rifle and moved tentatively forwards. They had been clever and they had made a strike back at him. But he was still the hunter and they were still the prey.
***
The scream had been eerily loud and had reverberated throughout the tranquility of the forest. Isobel had flinched as the sound of the man's screams had enveloped them with the grisly echo. The silence that followed seemed a cruel and deathly respite. There was no way of knowing whether the man had fled, was on his way towards them, or was left impaled and dying, bleeding to death on the spikes.
In hindsight, which was a wonderfully ineffectual gift, Stone realized that visual confirmation was perhaps more desirable than he had first imagined. Now, he felt useless. He knew that the fight was still out there, but now he would have to break cover to confirm the condition of their enemy. He waited for perhaps twenty minutes, an agonizingly long time in the realm of the unknown, then turned to Isobel, his face full of concern. “I have got to go and check,” he said. “It's no use us waiting here any longer. I have to confirm that we got him, or that he’s still out there hunting for us.”
“But you heard the scream,” she whispered in protest. “They would have heard the scream in New Hampshire!”
Stone shook his head. “I have to know if he's alive or if he's dead. I have to know if he's still on our trail. Besides, if we did get him, and he's badly injured, I need to arrest him and get him medical help.”
“Medical help?” She looked at him as if he were crazy. “He's killed people. He's even tried to kill us.”
“What do you want me to do? Execute him, while he's impaled and vulnerable on the spikes?” He paused. “I'll kill if I have to, have always been prepared to. But I won't kill a prisoner. Call it a soldier's code, a kind of base-level karma. What goes around comes around.” He rose steadily and carefully from their makeshift hide, and looked down at her. “Just stay where you are and wait for me.”
She looked worried, fearful. “But what if...?”
He looked at her mockingly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence! Just give me an hour. If I don't return by then, head for that ridge and run like hell. Deal is about three miles from here.”
“An hour!” she exclaimed. “But the first trap is only a hundred meters or so over there.” She pointed into the dark thickness of the pine forest.
“But I don't know what I will find.” He turned around and walked cautiously down the incline and onto the thinly wooded plateau. He drew his pistol from its holster as he walked, and sighted it in front of himself as he disappeared from view. Four shots, he told himself. Make them count.
The forest was eerily quiet and the light was dimmer now that the sun had reached the top of the furthest most ridge and light would soon be at a premium. He detoured from their previous route, skirting the pitfall trap and arrived back at the setting of the first trap from behind. At first he had thought he had missed the spot completely, but then his heart sunk as he saw the severed strips of suit lining, and two spikes discarded upon the ground. He approached cautiously and studied the two spikes. They were bloodied and there were droplets of blood on the ground, captured on the surfaces of the fallen leaves. So the gunman hadn't faked the scream and he hadn't been on to the trap. He had been compromised, surprised and would no doubt be feeling a lot less powerful and invincible now that he had spilt some of his own blood on the ground.
Rob Stone looked around, in a quandary what to do next. He had struck a blow to their enemy, but surely getting to Deal safely was better than continuing to hunt the man down and perhaps lose control of the situation. His bodyguard instincts were starting to take over, to shout in his ear that there was more to life than fighting and winning. And that survival was the ultimate goal, and that he could leave now and live to fight another day. But as tempting as that sounded, he knew that the fight would have to be played out here and he knew that it would most probably end in death for someone.
He looked down at the blood on the ground and studied the leaves for a moment. His eyes blurred as he attempted to take in such detail, then he saw the next drop of blood. And the next. And the next. Soon, he had the trail and was following it completely and easily. But instead of continuing on its path, or fleeing, the trail deliberately skirted the thinner forest and went up the incline. Stone started to follow, and then his heart beat ever more rapidly. Suddenly, reaching Isobel was his priority, not taking his time to hunt this man down. That would be a slow process and he may walk into an ambush, as the gunman had done so himself. Besides, he did not like the route and direction that the man had taken.
He moved fast down the plateau, keeping the pistol in front of him as he ran. As he neared, he slowed down and walked. Isobel was standing in front of a tree well away from where he had left her. He was angry at first, she should have kept hidden and stayed in one spot. He waved, but she did not respond. He frowned. And then noticed the expression of terror upon her face. Then, as he got nearer, he noticed that her hands were out of sight behind her back and that a strip of cord or leather was wrapped around her neck, securing her tightly to the tree. It looked as if she so much as flinched she would start to strangulate.
He moved his body in a wide arc, keeping the pistol in front of him. He searched the forest, but saw nothing. He knew he had lost, knew that everything had suddenly become hopeless. Above all else, he knew he was the target in a crystal clear rifle sight. The crosshairs centered on him.
“Put the weapon down, or I drill a bullet in her forehead!”
Stone tried to compensate for the echo, tried to get a fix on the location, but it was useless. He felt impotent. There was a gunshot to his left and a chunk of bark split off the trunk of the tree just above Isobel's head. Isobel let out a shrill scream.
“Do it!”
Stone dropped the pistol onto the ground, about four feet away from him.
There was another gunshot, another chunk of bark blown from the tree and another scream from Isobel. “Pick it up, and throw it as far as you can!”
Stone did as he was told, and turned towards the sound of the voice. He was tempted to start negotiating, but he was right out of candy. He knew he had nothing to offer and he knew that the gunman was holding the cards. All of them aces.
There was a rustling of branches and dried leaves and the man stepped out from the canopy of trees and entered the relative open of the clearing. Stone noticed the makeshift bandage around the man's arm and then he noticed the man favoring his left leg. So he had hit him back down on the road. Two-zip. But then he realized that the guy was about to score a homerun.
“I didn't think you were a worthy adversary,” the man said loudly. “But then there was that trap. I compliment you on you ingenuity.” He raised his arm displaying the bloodied bandage and limped forwards. “But I'd say I've evened things up now, wouldn't you?”
Stone remained silent. He glanced across at Isobel. She merely stared blankly ahead. She had been crying. God only knew what he had done or said to her as he had strung her up.
The man walked forwards and stopped just short of Stone. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he ordered harshly. “Do it!”
Stone did as he was ordered. The man stepped forwards cautiously and jabbed the muzzle of the rifle into his stomach. Stone dropped instantly to the floor, his hands clutching the searing pain in his abdomen. He was winded and struggled to catch his breath.
“Good, I think I have your attention,” he sneered. “Now, get up. On your knees. You're going to do some begging.”
Stone rolled onto his side and felt an uncomfortable dig in his right leg. He gasped through the pa
in of his stomach and suddenly realized that what dug into his thigh had been the bulky handle of his folding lock knife. He rolled onto his stomach, shielding his right arm from view and made a deliberate farce of getting onto his knees. By the time he did so, he had the knife held tightly in the palm of his hand. The knife had a retro-fitted thumb stud on the blade, enabling it to be opened with only the use of one hand. The knife had sentimental value to Stone, but he had brought it up to date with both a thumb stud and a clip point. It was also razor sharp. Honed on a diamond whetstone. He pressed the stud with his thumb and rolled it in a tight arc, opening the blade slowly behind his back.
“You're going to beg,” the man said cruelly. “I wish I could say I'd made your brother beg, but that would be a lie...”
Stone looked up at him, his eyes cold and cruel. “What do you know about my brother?”
The man took a couple of paces backwards and held the rifle up so that the muzzle pointed towards Stone's chest. “Ah, now it's clear. Your brother was investigating me, when he died. Or should I say, when I killed him.”
“My brother was investigating a disbanded government program. What the hell did you have to do with it?” Stone clenched his teeth, put his left hand outstretched to hold him steady on his knees. “So you’re one of them, are you? Yeah, that would make a whole lot of sense.”
The man looked puzzled. “What do you mean? He was investigating me.”
“Is that what that fucking psychopath Tom Hardy told you? Because if you are one of them, you won't have a fucking clue what's been going on. You won't even know who the fuck Tom Hardy really is anyway.”
“Who?” He frowned, held the rifle higher, like he was going to shoot and then relaxed his grip once more. “He was investigating me...”
“Sure,” Stone spat at him. “Oh yeah, you're one of them all right. Brainwashed and head-fucked into knowing nothing. You don't know who Tom Hardy is? Well, where do you think your vital painkillers come from? Who do you think gets you all the things in your apartment, or the car you drive?”
“I get them…”
“You get shit, pal,” snapped Stone. “Who's your mother? What does she do, where does she live? You don't know shit. Where’s the family home? You don't even know your own name. Go on, tell me your name, or your best friend's name from high school, or the girl who popped your cherry ...”
“I ...”
“You don't know shit.” Stone said flatly. “You are the only one that's left. The only piece left of the entire Janus Project. A project that took people and turned them into killers by using hypnosis and drugs and all sorts of genetically engineered hormone crap. Then you were used as a government tool. Wet work. Assassinations ... Women ... Children of powerful men that the filthy shadows of the government don't want to dirty their hands with. The CIA has plenty of those shadow departments and are only too pleased to use them to effect. And then a well-connected and honest senator finds out and threatens to shut down the operation and blow the whistle to the press. Janus is shut down almost overnight and all the subsequent operatives, the living experiments, are disposed of. All accept you. Tom Hardy's own little project. That's what my brother was investigating, and that's what I have been investigating.”
“And I killed your brother,” the man smiled. “I sliced his throat open and watch his life blood wash down the drain with the rainwater. He looked up at me as he struggled on the ground. Knew he was going to die.”
Stone looked at him coldly. “What, you want me to scream and shout? Big deal. I know how my brother died, I've accepted it. You know, I didn't even think you would still exist. I assumed that Hardy had gotten into some shit and that you were a fabrication and accusation from former Janus personnel who wanted Hardy shut down. But I can see it's true. You really are a clueless machine with no emotion. You really should have been terminated along with the rest of the project. Tell me, have you seen your mother in the dreams?” The man stared at him, non-committal. “Sure you have ... Around forty, blonde hair, a kind face. What do you remember? The cruel kids at your birthday party and the loving mother comforting you? Or your graduation from high school and the loving family greeting you home? I've read the brief, studied all of the files. I know all the memories they implanted, impregnated into your mind. The cool surf chick in LA, who pleasured you on the beach? Well, any memory you had was shared with the other freaks, the other experiments on the Janus project. They couldn't possibly waste time creating individual memories and legends for everyone ...”
“No! Shut up!” The man screamed at him, dropped the rifle loosely by his side. He stared down at the ground for a moment, real and solemn emotion in his expression.
A moment of distraction was all Stone needed. He was up and rushing him, the blade of the knife scything towards the man’s side, ready to gut him in one slash, his other hand going for the muzzle of the rifle. He got the muzzle, but the man let go of his grip on the rifle and snapped his fist out with a sharp jab, simultaneously sweeping his other arm in a wide arc which caught Stone’s wrist and knocked the knife out of his grasp. Almost at once Stone was met by a short, sharp front kick into his abdomen. The wind rushed out of his lungs and he dropped onto his knees, let the rifle drop on the ground. As the man started to rain blows down, Stone jabbed him in the groin with two successive hard punches. Both men hit the ground. Two hundred and fifty plus pounds was slower getting up than one-ninety and Stone realized two things. The guy was very good at unarmed combat and he also had a considerable size and strength advantage.
Both men were in their fighting stances and both men kept moving. Both were light on their feet and were moving slowly in a counterclockwise rotation. The man edged forwards, his eyes on Stone’s. Neither man looked anywhere but into the other’s eyes. All other vision was by the periphery. Stone tried to guess the man’s strengths and weaknesses. He didn’t seem to have any. Stone hedged that he would have a speed advantage, but this was quickly dismissed when the man bounded out leading with a front kick and a combination of punches and strikes, each one narrowly missing Stone, who in reaction dodged to his left and snapped out a roundhouse kick. It hammered home, but lacked any real stopping power against the man’s muscled torso. The man merely turned and kept coming. Stone dodged again and this time punched the man on the side of the head and followed it with a back fist across his neck. Neither of the strikes noticeably slowed the man down, and the two men merely squared off again having swapped positions.
Stone’s heart pounded and he fought for breath. He knew he couldn’t go on indefinitely and decided to go in hard and fast and make the man’s eyes his target. He rushed forward and aimed a faked kick at the man’s stomach. As the man reached out to block, Stone jumped high and into his space snapping out his fingers and aiming at the man’s face. A finger found its mark and the man reeled backwards. Stone jabbed and swung a combination of blows at the man’s face and then dropped low and punched the groin again. The man reeled backwards and groaned, but fought back hard and what started out looking like two experts parrying, ended up looking like two drunk hobos trading wild blows. The blows were vicious too and both men were bloodied and cut. Before he knew what had happened Stone felt the vice grip of the man bear hugging him. His arms were clamped against his sides and he was lifted clean off the ground and rushed backwards. Stone managed a vicious and powerful head-butt onto the bridge of the man’s nose, smashing it flat. Blood and mucous poured out of the man’s nostrils, and he stumbled a few feet until he crashed Stone’s back up against a pine tree. The wind knocked out of him, his sight blurred by both tears and blood, Stone dropped to the ground. He reached up and caught hold of the Glock pistol in the man’s utility vest holster. He got the weapon free and brought the muzzle up under the man’s chin, but it was hit out of his hand with a striking blow that threatened to break Stone’s wrist. The stubby black pistol flew off into the trees. The man kicked Stone savagely in the face, and he fell down onto a bed of pine needles and twigs. The man th
en turned and limped towards the M4 rifle which lay strewn on the forest floor.
Through the tears and blood Stone saw the glint of the blade poking through the pine needles. He reached out and picked up his folding knife from where it lay. He got to his knees, saw the man bend down and pick up the assault rifle. The man brushed debris from the action, blew into the receiver to get any grit out and then looked back at Stone.
Stone raised the knife, flipped it over so that he held the tip of the blade between his thumb and first two fingers, and threw it as hard as he could at the man in front of him.
Stone knew the principles of knife throwing, if only as a curious child who played in the woods. He knew that from three, six and nine feet he should hold the blade, providing that the knife had an evenly distributed handle to blade weight ratio. The knife in question did, and in turn, it spun handle over blade all the way through the air until the blade thudded into the man's chest.
The man stood stock still, the rifle still in his hand. He looked down curiously, stared transfixed at the polished rosewood handle protruding from his body. The brass studs in the handle glinted in the sunlight, glistening like gold in a jeweler’s window. He clawed at the handle, clasped it and tried to pull it clear.
Stone got unsteadily to his feet, but quickly regained some composure and lunged towards the man and hammered the palm of his hand onto the end of the knife’s handle, driving it deeper and forcing the man backwards. Stone, his hands by his sides, was spent. Battered, bloodied and bruised. It was all he could do to stand. He watched the man take three steps backwards, then recover his balance. The man raised the rifle in his right hand, aimed it shakily at Stone like he was wielding a pistol and cracked a smile through bloodied lips. The knife with its three inch blade stuck firm. All the way up to the hilt. But the man was solid muscle and must have had a fifty four inch chest. There had to be a good cushion of meat for the blade to slice through before doing serious damage to arteries or organs. It had bought some time at least.
