The Godless One (27 page)

With his other hand he flung ground
mixture, slush and mud and gravel. Straight at the man’s
face.

Hector howled, threw out his claws,
missed the eyes of the ducking man but gave a good gouging before
sailing off into the dark. By then Ari was up from his crouch and
crowding the man towards the roots. Forced back, the man stumbled
on the roots. He staggered, Ari pushed and had him down. He was
going for the throat with his foot, a good crush, make it quick,
kill him now.

He slipped wildly on a patch of ice,
almost going head over heel backwards. He managed his feet, but
when he rose so too did the man, who also knew to attack. Attack,
attack. Ari began to kick him in the crotch, felt the mud slipping
under him. This was not ground for fancy footwork. The man caught
on, too. His heel whiffled ice, he waved his arms to balance, then
Ari saw the knife. It had been up his sleeve. Too late to run like
hell.

The nice quilt coat was an encumbrance.
It was zippered up to his neck. To die for disliking a chill. The
man wore no coat, not even a jacket. He had not come far. Blood ran
down his cheeks from Hector's cut. Too bad, it would have been
better above the eye, blinding. Ari pretended to slip, took up one
of the concrete chunks, whirled and threw as the knife flashed
close. The man couldn't quite see what was coming and caught it in
the shoulder. He grunted, but that was all. It didn't buy Ari
enough time to remove his jacket, use it like an arm guard. The man
swayed the switchblade, trying to mesmerize Ari. Ari was
mesmerized. The knife was all. There was no way he could run. He
allowed his left hand to drift close. The blade slashed down but
Ari jumped back. Both of them were quick. Avoid the fugue state. No
time for two thoughts at once.

They both feinted and both slipped. It
was almost funny. They should have laughed.

Ari's shout had not worked. The man was
undistracted. He saved his breath. The man was silent as death. He
had the gleam of the foiled professional in his eye. The quick
clean had become protracted dirty. Why had Mustafa's death been so
messy? One chop, this guy could do it. But his partner was
incompetent, couldn't show him up. So it was snip-clip, Mustafa,
there goes your head. Overtime for overhead.

Breathing was a nuisance. It clouded
the air. The man felt the advantage. He was thinking of deboning
Ari. He had gone tunnel-vision, just like Ari. Fuck Saddam, fuck
George Washington. Here and now. The universe could
crumble.

Ari had been in this situation before.
Big fucking Kurd with a big fucking Tuareg knife. The Kurd was
dead, Ari had a scar. Saddam bandaged it with a medal.

Stop
thinking
!

Ari edged sideways, trying to take
control of the center of gravity. Get to the perpendicular, take
him beyond his ankles. The man knew what he was doing but had
difficult footing. Ari began to think he could take the knife out,
but at what price?

The man had a stupid side. The knife
froze, shot forward. Ari went for the back of his hand with his
knuckles. Get those fragile bones. And he did. But the man's hand
wasn't so fragile. He winced but drew back without dropping. Ari
lunged. The knife was up. Ari flung back just in time.

Rana
, he thought, and flung her away. Dying thought, didn't want
that.

He remembered the stick. How firm? And
where? He had not moved far. He edged the other way, foot
seeking.

There.

OK, but how to get it? Crouched, both
crouched. Fighter's stance.

It was the man's call. Ari could stay
like this all night. Something had to be done.

Another lunge, this time more cautious.
Well, you can't kill a man that way. Ari sensed triumph. He had all
night.

But he really didn't feel like waiting
that long. The man was ten years younger, might outlast him, end
the conference with a pointed conclusion. Should he talk to the
man? No, he had no point. Ha-ha.

But those guards in Baghdad, protecting
Abu Nidal. He had brought them around. Words, so powerful. But they
were young, reasonable, trapped in history's bubble. This man was
young, unreasonable, and looking for a kill. Ari drifted his body
right, his hand right. A quick slash. Nothing there.

He knows me well enough. Someone has
tattled. He doesn't charge. He knows he would die. He's taking the
circuit. The Grand Tour. He has time. I have time. What a great
time we'll have.

Patience is a virtue. No,
kill him now. Oh...a little problematic? The sound of the river
shimmied up his spine.
I shouldn't be
listening. I shouldn't be thinking about not
listening
. The knife was bait. But
unavoidable. If only he'd spotted it before. You don't fight a man
wielding a knife, not if he knows how to use it. He would have run,
throwing objects at his pursuer like a kitchen maid in distress.
Get to the road and look for a cop, a ranger, a kid with a
slingshot. If only Hector hadn't missed the eyes. Would Sphinx have
done better?

Ari shifted left and lunged for the
forearm. The man was slow—by design. The instant Ari clamped the
forearm he took a shot behind the ear. A hard blow. The fucker was
ambidextrous. He raised his knee, jammed the forearm down. The
knife flew off. The man grunted again, not much of a talker, not
put off from a blow to the side of Ari's neck. Ari tried to jerk
his other knee up, a kick to the groin surefire if not blocked. But
his leg failed him, squiggled sideways like a fat worm. He had just
enough in him to block stiffened fingers aimed at his eyes. The man
was mad about the cat trick, wanted revenge in that direction. Then
he blocked a pain-blow at his clavicle notch, a killing blow to his
throat. He tried a kick at the tibia, lots of nerves there. He
missed. He was on the defensive. He was loose, not in the good way
of fighting readiness but the bad way of a man no longer able to
control his pain. He was a dead man. Where was the knife? Where was
the branch?

A misstep. An opening. Was the man
stupid? No, he had an agenda. Didn't want to kill Ari right away.
The killing blow aimed at Ari's throat had been reflexive, he had
been duped by his own training. Twice in the last five seconds Ari
found himself over-vulnerable. No advantage taken. So he's
stupid—make him pay. As the man pulled back fractionally, taking
himself off offense, mysterious, Ari planted a solid fist in his
hip joint.

"
Shit
," the man hissed, knowing he'd
been stupid. But the hip had been right in front of Ari. Why was
that?

He was on his knees. Hadn't even
suspected.

"Dead and don't know it," the man said.
And the fact that he spoke at all probably meant Ari was dead—and
knew it. The man tried a kick. He could slip now and not pay the
price. But Ari gave his ankle a nice rap with his knuckles and he
hopped back. Both men were distracted by a brief search for the
knife. Buried in darkness, maybe buried in slush.

Then Ari succumbed to a feint, raised
his left when he should have blocked with his right, or both, and
was hammered sideways onto his side. He grabbed the man's ankle
when another kick came. Got a close-up of that brand new sneaker.
He was weak, now. The man broke away and circled behind him. Ari
flipped, letting go an involuntary groan, and hurt them both with a
fist to the man's kneecap. The man bent down and buried a wicked
jab in his armpit. A whole lot of nerves, there, and they'd been
exposed. Ari gasped in pain but managed a counterstroke on the
man's nose.

"God
damn
!"

That's was Ari's last blow. A kick to
his chest crunched his ribs. He tried to roll away, but the man
really came at him. Blows to the head, the back, the neck, the
groin, the legs...he was whittling Ari's life away. Ari flailed a
bit, refusing to give up. Then another head blow stunned him and he
lay still.

"There, got you fucker,"
the man almost wailed, limping around his victim like a gorged
tiger. "Goddamn, he warned me, that's why I bought the knife.
Gawd-
damn
!"

"So you're Frank Drebin," Ari
gasped.

"That's a joke!" said the man
incredulously. "Don't you Hajis have any culture?"

Haji
…the man was military, had served in Iraq.

"I would have avoided the fight if I'd
known about the knife."

"Sensible, but you didn't have any
choice." The man began searching for the knife. "How did you know?"
he asked conversationally over his shoulder.

"New athletic shoes," Ari gasped, a
part of his mind weirdly enjoying the analysis, professionals
comparing notes.

"You've got new shoes, too," said the
man.

"But they weren't covered in Mustafa's
blood, like your old ones."

"Flimsy evidence, buddy. I'm sure as
hell glad I'm not part of the general public, or you would have
ended up killing one of the general public."

"And your shoes weren't very muddy,"
said Ari, hearing a dreamlike buzz in the background. "You parked
close by, but were pretending you had run far."

"Better," the man conceded. He found
the knife and stood. "The only reason you're not dead yet is I've
got a message. It's stupid, I should have killed you and lied about
it."

"But your employer is very
good at detecting lies..." The reflections from across the river
were slipping away. Ari wondered if he was losing consciousness. He
might not hear the all-important message. That would be a shame,
but the universe was petering out, anyway. Sinkhole? No. Black
hole. No.
Heat death
.

"Here's the message: 'The deliverer of
dogs will die a dog’s death.'"

"I'll bear that in mind."

Now Ari knew for certain. Or maybe it
was the fact in hand that was comforting. He had always
known.

"Why are you grinning, asshole?" the
man demanded, annoyed.

"Have you ever fucked a virgin? I'm
going to fuck 72 of them."

"Right. You sort of have a nasty mouth
on you, you know that?"

"I'll have you know I'm an alumnus of a
prestigious university."

"So am I. You'd be amazed what they
teach at the culinary institute." The man hefted the knife
waste-high. "The carotid?"

"You could do worse," Ari smiled
dreamily. "In fact, you have."

The man hesitated. Ari was a fighter,
not above trickery. But was he above a final riposte? He was too
much a professional—

"Hey, Yank!
Aiyz temus
?"

The man whirled, dodging, but too late.
It was like a cannon shot, his chest blowing out. Ari was almost
certain he saw a projectile come out his back. He marveled as the
man flew off his feet, landing at least three yards away. Then Ari
rested his head and stared up at the sky. No, it wasn't the sky.
Too many trees. Stars in his eyes. Or maybe the retinal afterimage
of the gunflash.

Slushy footsteps hastened up to
him.

"Colonel...?"

Ari raised his arm, then dropped
it.

"I heard what you said to him. You
shouldn't have warned him like that. I could've missed. That's not
like you."

Ari raised his arm again, then dropped
it. "But you asked him if he wanted a blow job."

"I guess you aren't right in the head
at the moment,” said the man, ignoring Ari’s protest. "He was
right, though. You shouldn't have said that about the
virgins."

Ari coughed. The footsteps
shuffled away. He waited for the sound of a
coup de grace
, but doubted it was
necessary. The newcomer must have agreed. There were no more
gunshots. The slushy footsteps returned.

"What a mess," said Abu Jasim, looking
down at him. "You, too."

"
Bouse tizi
!"

"Hey, I just saved your life, Colonel
Asshole," Abu Jasim said grumpily.

"And I saved yours," said Ari wanly.
"He was headed down the river to kill you, but then he saw me and
changed direction."

"He would kill both of us?" Abu Jasim
was stunned. "But I’m not important enough to kill! Except…I know
you…. Can you get up?"

"Not...quite...yet..." said Ari after a
feeble attempt.

"My van is stuck in the mud. I was
trying to hide it near the river. Fucking mud. I came up here when
I heard you two scuffling. I need to go get it out. Can you wait?
Are you going to be dead when I get back?"

"Distinct possibility."

"Well, God be with you if I'm not back
in time. Want my gun?"

"What is that thing?"

"500 S&W Magnum, more powerful than
Dirty Harry's, with 2600 foot pounds that can take down an
elephant."

"Amazing," said Ari when Abu Jasim
handed it down to him.

"Sure is. You could plant a flagpole in
that fucker’s chest, now."

"I want one," said Ari, feeling more
than seeing the weapon lying on him.