He heard the toilet flush, turned and saw the wife stand up, her robe falling to cover the short nightgown. She had good legs under that rounded, pregnant belly, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bush. Maybe that was worth exploring, even though it wouldn’t be his first choice. Any port in a storm.
But there was something else he wanted to do first. That car was still in the garage. The wife could watch him trash her husband’s toy.
“Come on,” he said. “We have stuff to do in the garage.”
He led her down the hall.
“Sir, the snipers are set. We’ve got three, two in front, one in back. They know what our man looks like. If they see him, he’s history.”
“Thank you, John.”
Howard handed Michaels his revolver. “Point it at his head just like you would point your finger at his nose and pull the trigger. It will kick some and buck, so hold it two-handed if you can. A head shot is the only way to be sure to stop him.”
Michaels took the heavy black handgun and hefted it.
“Is your ring updated?”
“Yes.”
“You have six shots. If he’s still coming after that, reloading won’t help. Aim for the head. Don’t say a word, don’t hesitate, if you get a shot, take it. If you don’t, he’ll kill you.”
“I got it.”
“Leave your virgil on and sending. We won’t try to call, but we’ll monitor you. As soon as we see Toni, or you indicate that she is clear, we’ll come in.”
Michaels nodded. His mouth was dry, and his stomach fluttered.
“Whatever happens, he won’t be walking away from this.”
Michaels looked at Howard, realizing what he was saying. “Thank you.”
“Good luck, Alex.”
Michaels nodded. He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out, rubbed his eyes, and started toward his home to save his wife.
He was half a block away from where Howard and Jay were when he realized he had made his choice about taking the Hammer cap. No. His mind was his best tool, and he did not want to risk Toni’s life on his mind being fuzzed, even if it gave him the strength of Hercules to do so.
He would have to do it the hard way.
Toni watched, feeling detached, as Bershaw swung the pry bar and punched a bar-shaped hole through the safety glass windshield. Little squarish chips of glass flew like jewels under the garage lights as he pulled the bar back and struck with the ball peen hammer he held in his other hand. It took four or five hits, and the windshield was gone.
He had already done the headlights and taillights.
After the windshield, he walked around the car and shattered all the remaining glass, the sides, the rear, scattering glittering shards in all directions.
Then he started on the front fender, alternating the hammer and pry bar like some kind of mad drummer following a tune only he could hear.
It wasn’t until he started on the metal that Toni got an idea of just how much power he had. The heavy gauge steel of the car’s fender and hood not only buckled like aluminum foil, several times he actually punched holes right through, trapping his tools so that he had to yank them free. The impacts were loud, the grinch! of a pry bar pulled from a car’s hood sounding like Toni imagined the unlubricated gates of hell might sound when opening.
The destruction was terrible to watch. More terrible was Bershaw’s expression. He was laughing, having the time of his life.
The effort had to be burning him up, tearing muscles and tendons, doing major damage to his very bone structure, but he kept laughing and pounding, hitting with such force that the fiberglass handle of the hammer finally splintered and broke, leaving the rounded nose of the hammer buried in the passenger door, and the pry bar’s loop bent almost closed.
Toni realized that attacking this man physically would be suicide if she made even the tiniest mistake. Even with a knife.
After what seemed like a long time, he dropped the bent pry bar, rolled his shoulders, then turned to look at her. He stared at her for a few seconds, unblinking.
He looked like a raptor about to swoop down on prey.
“What would you do to save your husband’s life?” He finally said.
“Anything.”
He grinned. “Good. I have something in mind. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
Toni felt a small surge of hope. If he wanted sex, he would have to put himself into a more vulnerable position. He would have to allow her to get close. Silat was an in-your-face art. If he let her get close, she would have a chance. A small chance, maybe.
If she had the shot, she might be able to take him.
Michaels tucked the gun into his back pocket as he slid open the garage window. He had heard the noise half a block away, and by the time he got to the garage, he had a pretty good idea of what he would see.
He was wrong. What he saw was much worse than he’d expected. Jesus Christ, how could a man built like Bershaw do this much damage with a hammer and pry bar? The Chevy looked as if it had rolled off a cliff.
He saw that the door into the house was open, and he climbed through the window, pulled the revolver out, and made his way across the floor, trying to avoid stepping on all the shattered bits of glass. A head shot. Point the gun like your finger, and pull the trigger. Hit him in the head with a bullet, and it was all over.
Michaels edged into the doorway and into the house.
In the bedroom, Tad said; “Get on your hands and knees.”
The woman climbed onto the bed and did what he said. He moved to stand behind her. “Back up a little.”
He reached out with both hands, caught the middle of her robe, and ripped it apart, exposing her bare bottom. He reached for his zipper.
Toni gathered herself as she heard the sound of his zipper going down. A twist, a hard fist to the testicles, grab and rip them off, roll to the side and onto the floor—
Michaels stepped into the bedroom, saw Bershaw’s back to him, Toni beyond him on the bed. The years of law and order training tried to assert themselves. Maybe he should give the guy a chance to surrender.
Hell with that. The bastard was about to rape his wife, he was tanked on drugs that made him the most dangerous person Michaels had ever seen. He pointed the gun at the back of Bershaw’s head and started to squeeze the trigger.
Tad heard something, or maybe he felt the air pressure in the room change. Suddenly, he knew they weren’t alone. He spun. There was the husband, with a gun.
Good! Tad lunged.
Michaels saw Bershaw spin, his speed was incredible, and leap at him. He was halfway though squeezing the trigger. Fast as Bershaw was, Michaels was ahead of him. The gun went off.
Bershaw tried to duck, but the bullet hit him. Michaels saw it plow a furrow into his skull, just under the hairline, but then the mirror on Toni’s closet door shattered.
Bershaw kept coming, but the bullet’s impact changed his angle a little, so he veered to the left slightly. Michaels dodged to his right, and Bershaw almost missed him.
Almost. His flailing hand smashed into the revolver and tore it from Michaels’s grasp. The gun flew, and Bershaw slammed into the dresser and landed on his hands and knees. But he looked up at Michaels and smiled—smiled!—with blood oozing from the head wound.
The bullet hit at an angle and glanced off, Michaels realized.
He had to get this maniac away from Toni, who was on the floor next to the bed.
Michaels grabbed the small television set on the stand next to the door and threw it at Bershaw, who reached up and batted it aside like it was a pillow. The TV set hit the floor and ruptured into three pieces.
He had to lead him out of here! Away from Toni!
Michaels backpedaled through the door.
Bershaw came to his feet, wiped the blood from his eyes, stuck one finger into the gory groove on his forehead, and looked at his finger. “Close, but no cigar.”
Michaels turned and ran for the living room. “Come and get me, asshole!
”
Michaels risked a glance at his virgil. As soon as Bershaw came after him, Toni would be safe. The general’s men would be ready to hit the door when they heard Michaels yell for them.
Oh, shit! It was gone! The virgil was gone! Where had he lost it? The window?
He didn’t have time to worry about that now.
He made it to the living room, and he looked around frantically for a weapon, something to throw, anything!
He saw the little wooden case with the two kerambit knives in it. He grabbed it and jerked the lid off just as Bershaw came into the room. The man was moving a little slower, he was a little unsteady on his feet. The bullet glancing off his head must have had some effect.
Bershaw grabbed the end of the couch as Michaels ran around behind it, trying to slip the rings of the little curved knives onto his index fingers. Bershaw heaved, and the couch came off the floor and twisted, flew five feet, and landed upside down with a crash.
“You can run, but you can’t hide. Joe Lewis said that, did you know?”
Stall him! “What do you want?”
“You killed Bobby. I kill you. Even trade.”
“I didn’t kill him. He was shot by a rogue NSA agent working for the drug companies! That man is dead, too!”
“Doesn’t matter. You pointed the shooter at him. You get to pay.”
Bershaw moved in, his hands held out to grab.
Michaels had the little curved-bladed knives gripped solidly now, hidden behind his forearms and closed hands, only the forefinger rings showing. If Bershaw saw that, or cared, he didn’t give any indication, he just kept coming, moving like some Frankenstein’s monster that couldn’t be stopped.
Michaels took a deep breath and held it.
It might be his last.
40
Toni hurried down the hall. In her hand, she held the kris that Guru had given her, the wavy-bladed Javanese dagger that had been in the old lady’s family for years. Such daggers had been more ceremonial than used for a long time, but it was still a knife, when stick came to stab, and it was the only weapon in the bedroom.
She heard a loud noise, felt the floor shake as she reached the living room and saw the two men there.
Bershaw advanced on Alex.
Alex stood in a djuru stance, and Toni immediately realized he had the kerambits in his hands, even though they were all but hidden.
Even with a head wound, the man was supernaturally fast. He lashed out with one hand, and before Alex could move, he caught him with a slap that knocked him backward into the bookcase, showering him with hardbacks.
“Hey!” Toni yelled.
Bershaw turned, smiled at her. “I’ll take care of you later. Better put that down before you cut yourself, honey.”
The distraction was enough for Alex to recover a little. He grabbed several books from the shelf behind him and threw them at Bershaw.
Tad turned back to finish Michaels. He saw three books coming at him in slow motion: a red one, one with a dark dust cover, and one that opened so that the pages were flapping in the air. He dodged the dark dust covered one, backhanded the red book, and let the flapping one hit him on the chest; it was nothing.
Michaels was right behind the books, though, and just quick enough to get a punch in on him before Tad could block it. No big deal, he would absorb that and crush the fucker.
His vision went out on the left side, just flashed red and ... went away.
Tad frowned and backhanded Michaels, knocking him sprawling over the overturned couch. He put his hand to his face, and it came away covered with blood and some kind of clear gel. His mind made the connection.
The son of a bitch had ripped his eye out!
How?
Michaels came up, and Tad saw how he’d done it. He had a little knife in his hand. Looked like a claw.
Tricky shit, hiding that.
Well, fine. He’d just step in, break that fucking arm, and shove that little sticker up the man’s ass, that’s what—
Tad moved in.
Something hit him in the back, and he felt a stab of minor pain.
He reached around, realized the wife had thrown that fucking curvy blade and stuck it up in the middle of his back. He grabbed the thing by the blade, pulled it out, and brought it around in front of himself. The blade was black with funny little patterns in the steel. He waved it at the woman. “Thanks. Just what I needed.”
He turned in time to see Michaels come over the couch, that little knife leading.
Tad grinned. He still held the wavy knife by the blade, only a few inches of it sticking out, but he jammed the somewhat dull point at Michaels’s forearm, drove it into the muscle, felt it grate on bone, to stop only when his hand hit Michaels’s arm.
Michaels’s hand spasmed open. So much for his little claw.
But the knife didn’t fall, it was as if it was glued to his fucking hand.
Fine, fine. You want to play? Tad jerked his own weapon free, shifted his grip, and figured he’d just get a good swing and take the whole arm off. That would get rid of the little knife damned quick. After that, he’d just carve the bastard up in little chunks.
Michaels felt the kris go into his right forearm, felt the tip hit his radius and then slip past and saw it come all the way through, just an inch or so of the point sticking out.
His hand opened on its own.
Bershaw jerked the kris free and lifted it past his ear like an ax, and he knew the man was going to chop down. Knew with his maniacal strength, the man might cleave right though the muscle and bone and slice Michaels’s hand completely off.
But he had the other kerambit. And now he was close, inside, right where a silat serak player wanted to be when it all came down. He had one chance, maybe, and he took it. He lashed out in a punch at Bershaw’s neck, a short left hook, twisting his fist as he threw it.
The tiny blade of the kerambit bit into the right side Bershaw’s neck a couple of inches below the jaw and ripped a channel all the way to his Adam’s apple.
The man frowned and paused in his downstroke.
Michaels collapsed, just let his legs go limp. It was the fastest way to get clear, and as he fell, he punched with the knife again, scoring a nasty slash across Bershaw’s thigh, just below his groin.
Bershaw drew back his unwounded leg and kicked. His foot took Michaels in the side, just under the armpit, and he felt and heard ribs crack, a wet snap-snap that stole his breath.
Blood fountained from Bershaw’s neck, jetting out with each pulse, spewing with his trip-hammer-fast beat like a torn garden hose spraying water under pressure.
Bershaw kicked him again, but not as hard. Michaels managed to turn a little, so he caught it on the shoulder. Muscle tore, but he didn’t think the arm broke, even though the force of the kick turned him a hundred and eighty degrees around.
Michaels hooked his right foot behind Bershaw’s right ankle, then drove his left heel into the bloody cut on Bershaw’s thigh.
Bershaw lost his balance and fell backward, slamming into the couch.
Michaels rolled away and up. He held the kerambit in his left hand up point-first at Bershaw.
The right side of Bershaw’s body was soaked in blood from the carotid artery Michaels had sliced open. The blood still pulsed out, but much slower and with less force now.
Bershaw came up, grinned, and took two steps toward Michaels. But now it was his turn to move in slow motion.
Michaels stabbed at him. Bershaw put up an arm, and the blade scored a line from the wrist to the elbow, but it hardly bled at all.
Tad suddenly felt tired, so very tired. Yeah, he had to kill this guy, for Bobby, but as soon as he did that, he was gonna have to go sit down. The Hammer was slowing, he could feel it, and it wasn’t time yet. Not yet. Just this one thing left to do first, then he could take a break. Go see Bobby.
Bobby?
Something about Bobby ...
Fuck it. Kill the guy, then worry about it.
Bershaw grabbed Michaels’s knife arm with both hands and squeezed.
Michaels felt his wrist crack, and in desperation he snapped his other elbow out in a horizontal shot, right out of djuru one, out in front of him like Dracula behind his cape, only with all his weight behind it. He hit Bershaw square on the temple.
Man! Who would have thought this guy could hit so hard? He’d have to tell Bobby about this.
But he felt so tired. So weak. It was so much trouble just to stand here, and why should he even bother?
The Hammer left him then, all by himself here with this stranger who hit him. The gray closed in on Tad.
Bobby? Is that you, man?
The light in Bershaw’s remaining eye flickered as he let go of Michaels’s arm and stumbled back a step.
Then the light went out, and Bershaw fell, a puppet with his strings cut.
Michaels turned and saw Toni, a book gripped in her hands, advancing toward them. In that odd interplay that sometimes happened in scary situations, he noticed the title of the book, and he started to laugh.
Toni stopped. “Alex? Are you all right?”
He waved at the book. “You were going to hit him with that?”
Toni looked at it.
It was How to Win Friends and Influence People.
EPILOGUE
Washington, D.C.
Michaels’s arm itched, and he wanted to tear off the plastic flesh bandage and scratch the cut. The surgical glue was holding the wound closed just fine, and he had pain medicine if he needed it, for the broken wrist that ached dully and the cracked ribs that hurt every time he breathed, but nothing seemed to help with the itching.