The Hunt

87

Jones lowered his machine gun to the floor and booted it into the shadows.

Jaeger stepped further into the open. As he did so, he felt an excruciating pain shoot through his leg. He was wounded and facing an uninjured Jones: not the best place to be. But his burning hatred of the man, plus the rage that was surging through him, had to give him an edge.

The two figures approached each other warily. Jones was a good six foot four, and with all the performance-enhancing drugs he used, he was as muscle-bound as Jaeger remembered. He almost didn’t look human.

Jaeger had always been faster, but with an injured leg, there was no telling. He went into a combat stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, toes slightly turned inwards, knees slightly bent, arms up and out in front of his face, ready to lash blows.

It was then that Jones did something utterly unexpected. Reaching down to his thigh, he drew out a blade. What had once been Narov’s commando knife – all seven inches of tapered, razor-sharp steel – was now gripped in his hand.

‘Recognise this?’ He smiled evilly. ‘I said no shooters. I didn’t mention blades. I call it the Shark Killer. Though it’s just as good for disembowelling humans. Take a look at what I did to Old Man Miles.’

Jaeger didn’t reply. His entire focus was on the coming fight.

They circled each other like big cats, ready to pounce. From his martial arts training, Jaeger knew that so often the key to such a fight was to strike first and strike hard. The man who hesitated was dead.

He made his move – and it was fast, very fast.

He drove the outside edge of his right boot low and hard into the side of Jones’s knee.

Jones tried to whip his leg back to avoid the blow. But it was a case of simple cause and effect; the attacker will always have a speed advantage. Jaeger’s kick made partial contact. It wasn’t the devastating strike that he’d hoped for; no crippling crunch of bone. But it was a start.

Jones backed away, regaining his balance, just as Jaeger swung the side of his right hand hard into his bull-like neck. Again, it was a glancing blow, but it opened the door for the next move. A split second later, he drove his left fist straight out like a battering ram, smashing into Jones’s windpipe with devastating force.

Jones’s shaven head whipped backwards violently, then rebounded forward from the impact of the killer strike.

The fight had lasted barely seconds. But as Jaeger watched Jones’s massive form crumple to the floor, he felt a stab of sheer agony shooting through his good leg, which gave way beneath him. Even as he had collapsed, Steve Jones had struck Jaeger a savage blow with the knife.

Jaeger found himself sprawled in a heap, his knifed leg a mass of spurting blood. He started to crawl, trying to drag his body to a safe place.

Behind him, Jones was starting to come round. Jaeger heard a voice spitting out the words. ‘Was I too quick? Didn’t see the blade? Oh yeah! I’m going to enjoy every last minute of this.’

Jones sheathed his bloodied knife and staggered to his feet, towering over Jaeger’s prone form. ‘I have wanted this for so long,’ he sneered. ‘I am going to kick your head until what little brains you have are smeared across the walls.’

He moved to give himself room for the run-up. ‘I’m gonna beat you to the very brink of death. But you ain’t gonna die. Not yet. Not today. Oh no. This is far too personal… I’m gonna keep you alive. You know why? So you can watch your family fry.’

Jaeger was hunched against the wall, bloodied and helpless before the towering figure of his assailant.

‘You think that by hitting this place you can stop us?’ Jones scoffed. ‘We’re unstoppable. And we’re coming for the Jaeger clan like you’d never imagined possible!’

As Jones braced himself to attack, Jaeger felt something digging into the small of his back. Suddenly he remembered: the Chinese QSZ-92 – the pistol that he’d taken from Ustanov.

His backup backup weapon.

As Jones began to charge, Jaeger whipped out the hidden handgun. There was a momentary look of disbelief in the big man’s eyes, before his kick to Jaeger’s head became a desperate attempt to boot the pistol from his hands.

Jaeger fired. The first round struck Jones high in the leg, two further shots following. By the time Jones’s body joined Jaeger’s on the cold concrete floor, he was splattered in blood and gore.

As for Jaeger, he was drifting into a dark unconsciousness.