Chapter 48

Joe Hunter?

How many lives does this son of a bitch have?

That was all the thinking that Rickard managed.

Then Hunter was on top of him and he had to forget about thinking and go on instinct.

He spun on his side, lifting and discharging his gun in the same instant. Would have got him in the guts, but Hunter’s knee came down on his wrist and plastered it to the roof tiles. The bullets careened off the slick surface, ricocheting off into the heavens. Hunter’s hand plunged and only a twist of Rickard’s body saved his life. The military knife jammed through the material of his bulletproof vest but was halted before it found flesh by Rickard’s catlike movement that twisted the blade off-line. Undeterred Hunter ripped out the knife and stabbed again.

Rickard pulled loose from under Hunter’s knee, swinging his elbow up and back and catching the crook of Hunter’s arm. The blade missed his throat by less than a thumb’s width. Rickard twisted again, getting himself under Hunter’s chest, and thrust with all his power, throwing them both back against the roof. He tried to turn, to bring round the gun, but Hunter wasn’t having any of it. He grabbed a fistful of collar and dragged Rickard backwards, driving into his ribs with the knife. Kevlar vests often had exposed areas under the arms where the straps were fixed round the body, but this was full tactical armour and the opening wasn’t there. It didn’t deter Hunter, he just kept on digging with the razor tip, drilling his way through the material. The armour was designed to stop the blunt trauma of a bullet, not sharp pointy things. It was only a matter of time before the knife would penetrate and start to saw its way through his ribs.

Rickard reared back again, using the edge of his helmet as a weapon against Hunter’s jaw. He struck twice, felt the pressure go from his ribs. Then he dropped his gun and snatched at the ceramic knife on his belt. Thumbed it open.

He jabbed down, slashing open another wound in Hunter’s injured leg. Then he swung from the hips, using his elbow to drive Hunter away from him. He reversed, swinging now with the knife at Hunter’s throat.

Hunter got his own arm in the way and their forearms clashed.

Hunter kicked at his groin, but there was no power in his leg. Rickard took the kick, allowing the steel cup in his jockstrap to take the brunt, and cut again at Hunter’s throat.

Hunter ducked, but Rickard felt the knife graze the top of his skull and saw a lock of hair spinning in the breeze of their making.

Hunter came back at him with the big knife and Rickard twisted so that it missed. The only problem was it left him teetering over the balustrade and he had to make a quick adjustment to avoid crashing through it. He threw a back kick into Hunter’s legs. But now it was his kick that held little power.

Hunter slammed him from behind, an elbow across the nape of his neck. The armour didn’t help cushion this blow, and Rickard staggered away, almost going over the balustrade again. Below him he saw the Japanese dude — Jared Rington, Wetherby had called him — lift up an assault rifle. He saw the flash before he heard the rattle, and he felt the impact of bullets hit his body before he felt the pain. He stumbled away, feeling like he was being pummelled by a crowd of determined pugilists.

Then he was out of the line of fire.

The cessation of bullets left him as dazed as the incoming fire had. He wondered for the briefest fraction of a second if he was still alive.

Of course he was.

Testament to that was the intensity with which Joe Hunter lurched after him to finish the job.

How none of Rington’s bullets had found flesh he had no idea, but he didn’t want to chance them again. He was at the corner of the building now and he dodged round it, causing Hunter to follow.

‘Come on.’

He beckoned Hunter after him. He was confident that the armour would halt Hunter’s knife whereas there was nothing to stop him from slicing the man to ribbons.

‘Come on, Hunter.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m coming.’

Hunter was pale, weakened by blood loss and favouring his right leg. The material of his trousers was slick with blood and he was limping on the ball of his foot. His balance was off. No way could he avoid Rickard’s lunge.

Rickard leaped at him, slashing upwards at Hunter’s belly.

Hunter didn’t dodge back.

He came forwards, swerving his hips to one side even as he leaned down and slammed the butt of his knife against Rickard’s extended arm. The armour did nothing to protect his forearm from the power of the blow. His knife jumped from his fingers as they opened in reflex. It was a move worthy of Musashi himself.

Crash through their defences, cut them down.

Hunter palmed him under the chin. The hand felt like a wedge of wood as it drove his jaw up and back. Rickard felt the bone snap up near his left ear. The pain was excruciating. Rickard almost blacked out.

He wove on his feet.

Hunter actually stopped him from slipping off the roof. He clamped a hand on the neckline of his vest, while he readied the knife in the other. Then Hunter tugged down and Rickard realised what he was doing. The vest was fastened down the front by a flap of Kevlar that concealed a zip. The zip itself was the weak point of his armour. Hunter jabbed through the plastic zipper like it wasn’t even there. There was more Kevlar behind it, but only a narrow strip. Hunter merely angled the point of the blade so that it slid round the armour and into his chest.

Rickard could feel the steel pushing into his body.

How was this even possible?

He was better than this… better than Hunter.

He grabbed Hunter’s wrists. Tried to stop the pressure. Hunter was weakened by the loss of pints of blood — how did he still have the strength? Hunter’s face contorted with effort, beads of sweat breaking along his hairline, and Rickard felt the knife slide in another half-inch.

He thought that having his jaw broken was bad.

That was nothing.

‘Noooo…’

‘Yes,’ Hunter told him.

Rickard reached for Hunter’s face, trying to gouge his eyes with his thumbs. Hunter twisted out of his grip, pushing even harder on the knife.

‘You won’t hurt Alisha now, you bastard.’ Hunter pushed again and Rickard felt something pop inside him. ‘You won’t hurt Imogen Ballard. You won’t hurt any woman ever again.’

‘No… I won’t.’

His answer wasn’t agreement, just resignation. Hunter it seemed didn’t like the tone of voice he delivered it in. He pushed on the knife again. Blood frothed between Rickard’s lips. Sign of a punctured lung, maybe something even worse. Whatever, he knew that he wasn’t getting out of this alive. He spat the mouthful of oxygen-rich blood in Hunter’s face.

He could feel the serpent inside him.

But it was shuddering now.

Not with rage but fear.

And ignominy.

The serpent was dying.

‘At least I’m not going to die alone.’

With his failing breath he grabbed tightly at Hunter, clutching the hand holding the knife around the wrist so that Hunter could not release him. Then he kicked at Hunter’s good leg, even as he swung out and over the edge of the roof.

‘Shit!’

He heard Hunter’s expletive and it made him smile. He kept that expression with him all the way down until the crushing impact on the ground knocked it loose.

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