The Hunter

CHAPTER 79

17:41 EAT

But he didn’t fire at Victor.

There was a sound, the crackling of vegetation. Reed spun instantly to its source, ninety degrees to his left. He shot once into the darkness beneath the canopy, dropped to one knee, reducing the size of his body while at the same time providing a more stable firing position. Shot again. Suppressed automatic fire came back at him, mud flying up as bullets raked the ground around his position.

Victor didn’t hesitate, moved while Reed was distracted by what had to be the second Russian from the pick-up. He sprinted towards Reed, towards the dead Russian, towards the Bizon still clutched in the Russian’s hand.

Reed fired again at the unseen gunman, and a cry emanated from the trees. Victor covered the ground quickly, but Reed was already spinning back towards him. Victor tensed, anticipating the bullet’s impact, but then he saw the slide was back on the Glock in Reed’s hand.

Empty.

Victor reached the Bizon and scooped it up into his hands. He levelled it to fire, but Reed was already on him, pushing the gun’s barrel to one side before he had it in line. A hand grabbed Victor’s shirt a split second before a foot looped around his leg.

He crashed to the ground, on his back, right arm extended, hand still gripping the submachine gun. Reed landed on top of Victor, his weight knocking the air from Victor’s lungs.

Flames spat from the muzzle of the Bizon. Ejected brass cases struck the mud. The recoil made Victor’s arm shake and flail about wildly. Reed forced Victor’s index finger down on the trigger. The magazine was empty in just over three seconds, the last bullet escaping the gun into nearby vegetation.

Victor reached for Reed’s hair, found it too short to grab hold of, went for his eyes instead, but Reed was already rolling. He came to his feet a few yards away and Victor likewise rose.

For a moment the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Victor assessed his opponent while he knew he was likewise being assessed. The assassin before him had a compact frame, but Victor could tell that every pound was honed for strength and speed. He wore his hair short and with no care for fashion or style, no more than a centimetre or two in length all over. Too short for an enemy to grip in his fingers, as Victor had found out.

Blood ran from the assassin’s right ear. Superficial wounds on his torso and arms, Victor assumed from the crash, were visible where his shirt was red. His face was damp with sweat, chillingly empty of expression, conveying no anger or excitement or even determination. It was as if no thought or feeling existed behind his eyes.

With a slow, casual motion, Reed reached his right thumb and forefinger up his left shirt sleeve. He drew out a knife from a wrist sheath and smoothly opened the folded blade.

It had a four-inch, partially serrated kriss blade with a gladiator point. It was matte black, precision crafted ceramic, strong as folded steel but much lighter and sharper, invisible to metal detectors. Victor had never seen the model before. Custom made, then, for an expert.

Victor backed away a step.

They were five yards apart, far enough away for Victor to tear off his shirt and wrap it tightly around his left arm. He gripped the end of the shirt tightly in his fist to keep it secure. Reed nodded to him — the killer’s bow — a mark of respect between enemies.

Victor didn’t nod back.

There was a pain growing in his lower back, bruised vertebrae from the crash or the earlier fall. It was getting worse, but he showed no sign of it on his face. Reed likewise stood as if he was not injured and bleeding in several places. Neither man displayed any weakness lest their opponent take the advantage.

Reed held his knife loosely in his right hand, the point up, thumb resting along centre of the blade. He kept it at chest level, arm bent at the elbow, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, balance ready to shift in an instant. Victor stood with the same stance. He was taller than his enemy. It didn’t matter.

He took another step back, instinctively retreating away from the blade but also moving towards the river where the water would help support his leg.

Reed rushed forward, covering the distance fast, jabbing upward at Victor’s neck. His speed was incredible. Victor dodged away, hearing the whoosh as the blade sliced through the air. He used his shielded forearm to ward off a follow-up thrust to his stomach, hitting the blade from above with the back of his wrist. Victor punched with his right arm, hoping to hit his opponent’s exposed jaw.

Reed pulled back, used his left arm to block the blow, and whipped the knife up. Victor saw it coming, moved, but felt the blade cut his right arm. The knife was so sharp it barely hurt.

They stepped away in unison, both equally vulnerable to the other, neither willing to take uncalculated risks. Each face was a blank mask, impassive.

Victor was considering his tactics as he knew his opponent was also. The assassin may have had a knife, but he was no fool. He wouldn’t commit himself blindly until the moment was exact, and neither would Victor. But in their first engagement Victor was cut and the assassin uninjured. All his enemy had to do was repeat the process, each time wearing Victor down. But he’ll try something else, Victor thought; he won’t repeat the same attack.

Reed leaped forward, the knife held high and wide, bringing it across for a wild slash at Victor’s eyes. Victor didn’t take the bait. He jumped back out of his opponent’s reach as the assassin’s arm pivoted, driving the knife downwards. Instead of plunging into the side of Victor’s neck, the blade hit only air.

Victor knocked the knife hand to one side, kicked at Reed’s stomach. Reed threw his left arm in the way, accepting the blow where it had little effect.

Victor edged backwards, his feet now under water. The next attack came with frightening speed, more following as Victor dodged. Reed didn’t slow his momentum, coming forward with every thrust, keeping Victor on the defensive. All Victor’s effort was focused on stopping the knife point from entering his flesh. He blocked and dodged, always retreating. The water reached the midpoint of his shins. He took a slash to his abdomen when Reed changed his attack and Victor wasn’t fast enough to avoid it.

The wound made Victor wince, and he cursed himself for showing pain. Moving through the water slowed him down but was easier on his injured leg. His enemy’s speed was likewise affected, but his reflexes were still blindingly fast. The warm blood on Victor’s stomach and arm proof those reflexes were faster than his own. The slash to his stomach wasn’t deep, but he could feel it tearing more every time he moved. He wouldn’t allow it to slow him down. If he tore himself apart, so be it.

Victor concentrated on parrying, hoping to wear his opponent down while he waited for the opportunity to counter-attack. The shirt wrapped around his arm was cut in a dozen places, but so far it had protected his arm from the knife’s edge. It was razor sharp, as he expected it would be, but still couldn’t penetrate all the way through the thick layers of cloth in a single slash. But each attack took its toll, and, as Victor parried, his shield was slowly being destroyed. With luck it might last another few minutes before it would be useless. When it did, Victor would use his bare arm as the shield.

Reed stopped suddenly, allowing Victor to back off a few steps. The water was almost knee deep. His enemy was playing it safe, not willing to continue the relentless attack and drain his own energy. He knew what Victor knew, that defending was less strenuous. He was pacing himself, knowing the duel would not end quickly. As fatigue increased reactions slowed.

Victor risked taking his eyes off his enemy, quickly glanced around, looking for anything that might help him. On the bank, unseen in the trees, was the second Russian shot by the assassin. There would be a submachine gun next to him, but there was no way Victor could get to it. He couldn’t go backwards either. The far bank was too far away. He’d never make it. If it was dark he would have a chance of escaping if he could put some distance between them, but at this rate he would be dead long before then. Blood was slick on his arm and stomach. The pain in his back and leg was relentless. Think. Think.

Reed came forward again, thrusting and slashing at Victor’s waist, trying to get the knife under Victor’s arm after he’d failed to get above it. Victor blocked awkwardly, forced to twist his forearm so his palm was upward. He couldn’t risk using the underside, where arteries flowed just below the skin.

Victor pushed an attack aside, felt the hot sting as the knife bit deep into his forearm. The blade caught for a second among the folded layers of the shirt, and Victor used that advantage to throw himself forward, slamming his elbow at his opponent’s chest, hoping to crack ribs.

Reed sacrificed his balance, shifting all his weight to one leg to pull himself away in time. The elbow only glanced his ribcage. Victor blocked another blow with his protected forearm. Red stained the shirt.

The knife came again, in a blur, but Victor knocked the assassin’s hand up with his left forearm, accepting another cut as he tried to grab hold of the wrist with his right hand. Reed was faster and intercepted Victor’s arm, catching the wrist in his left hand. Victor propelled himself forward, going inside the assassin’s reach. Before Reed could counter, Victor drove his forehead into his enemy’s face.

Reed grunted, stumbled back, releasing Victor’s wrist. Reed’s eyes filled with water, blood flowed from the split on the bridge of his nose. He swung frantically with the knife, slashing the air in front of him, keeping Victor at bay.

Victor kept his distance from the lethal blade, welcoming the chance to get his breath back. Blood dripped from Reed’s chin. Victor took two heavy breaths, but he only needed one.

The assassin attacked, aiming high. Victor sidestepped, threw an elbow at the side of Reed’s head. Reed parried with his left arm. The knife came at the side of Victor’s face, in a slash, but Victor ducked down low to avoid it, springing back up, kicking with his right leg. Reed lurched backwards, dodging the attack, but was unable to keep his balance.

Victor knocked the knife to one side with his left hand and punched straight out with his right fist. His knuckles connected with the assassin’s jaw, but it was a glancing blow, sliding away, force redirected — his enemy too fast.

Reed recovered his footing and leaped at Victor from a low crouch. Victor caught the incoming arm in both hands, turned it away, but had to let go and pivot out of the way to avoid Reed’s counterpunch. Both men stepped back. The riverbed was hard and rocky underfoot.

Even Victor’s opponent was looking tired now, his mouth open, taking in large gulps of air with each inhale. It had become a battle of attrition, each man’s abilities evenly matched, neither capable of ending the fight quickly. With each attack and parry the stamina of both was wearing away, working to the point where fatigue would create the inevitable mistake. But Victor, bleeding from both arms, stomach, and ribs, knew that as things stood he would reach that stage sooner.

The pain was extreme. He could no longer keep it from his face even for a second. His arms felt heavy. The shirt was shredded, soaked with river water and blood — more of a hindrance than anything else. Victor released it and shook it off his arm. He thought about throwing it at his opponent, but it would be a pathetic gesture. He wasn’t about to humiliate himself.

His chest heaved; his mouth hung open. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. Reed lunged forward. Victor used his left bare forearm to block the blade, feeling it enter his skin. Reed felt it too, and his eyes glimmered. Victor threw him backwards, went to attack but stumbled, his face contorting in sudden agony. Both actions faked.

Reed lunged again, sensing the kill, lured into overeagerness. He neglected protocol, overextending his thrust. Victor sidestepped easily, pushed the blade away with his right forearm, and brought his left fist across and into Reed’s face.

There was a satisfying smack, the blow knocking Reed sideways. Reed’s arms sagged, stunned. Victor twisted, throwing another heavy punch, trying to capitalize on the change in initiative while he had the chance, but Reed was already dropping into a low crouch, and Victor realized he’d been fooled, his own tactic used against him.

Reed sprang up inside of Victor’s reach, the knife racing straight towards his neck.

Victor did the only thing he could and threw his left arm into its path.

He felt the knife point pierce the underside of his forearm, slicing through skin, muscle, and blood vessels, scraping between his ulna and radius bones.

The gladiator point came right out of the other side of his arm, the matte-black blade utterly red. Drops of his own blood splashed Victor’s face. He gasped, fought not to scream. His legs buckled.

He grabbed hold of his enemy’s wrist, tried to pull the knife free but his strength was gone. Reed pushed the knife from side to side, increasing the size of the wound, magnifying the agony. Blood poured from Victor’s arm. It took all his will to keep standing. He had nothing left. A cruel grin formed on Reed’s face.

That smile stung Victor more than the blade in his arm. It stabbed something deep inside him, reminding Victor he wasn’t dead yet. He had one last chance to save his life.

He tipped himself backwards, deliberately falling.

Reed grabbed hold of Victor with his free hand to stop him, to keep him upright and impaled, but he didn’t have the leverage. Letting Victor fall meant letting go of the knife, but falling too meant he would land on top of Victor, cushioning his own fall and trapping his prey underwater. It would make finishing him off all the more easy.

Reed fell too.

Before they hit the water, Victor brought his right leg up and managed to wedge his knee at the base of Reed’s breastbone.

Victor disappeared beneath the river, taking the pain of their combined weight, the water cushioning the fall but the rocky riverbed intensifying it. That force was directed straight through Victor’s knee and right into his Reed’s solar plexus.

Reed let out a cry as his diaphragm went into paralysis and the breath expelled from his lungs. In that instant his strength left him completely.

Immediately Victor pushed upwards with his left arm. It emerged from underneath the water, and he drove the point of the knife protruding from his forearm into the Reed’s exposed neck. The inch of blade disappeared entirely into the Englishman’s flesh.

Reed’s eyes went wide.

Victor, head still underwater, wrenched the blade from side to side, crying out against the agony in his own arm as he tore through his assailant’s neck. Reed gagged. For a moment there was resistance against the blade. The thick walls of the carotid artery.

Reed threw himself away, pressing his hands to his neck, but it was too late.

A torrent of blood erupted from the wound.

Victor’s watery sky turned red. Reed fell into the river, water splashing up around him.

Victor heaved himself up and sucked in precious air. He struggled to his feet, cradling his impaled arm. Reed was floating in the river before him, a crimson cloud rapidly expanding around him, both palms pressed over his throat, trying desperately to stem the spray of blood and do the impossible — stay alive.

Victor ignored him. The knife was buried to the hilt in his arm, blood leaking out from the top and bottom, all around. Using only his right hand, Victor slid off his belt and wrapped it around his upper-left bicep as tightly as it could go. He forced the metal catch through the leather to create a new hole to fasten it.

It would be suicide to remove the knife, so he left it in place. The belt would help, but it was only a temporary respite. At the rate it was coming out, most, if not all, the major blood vessels in his arm had been severed. At his weight, and with just the belt to help him, Victor estimated he had less than half an hour before he bled to death. He would probably be unable to walk after fifteen minutes, twenty if he was lucky.

Reed was making a croaking sound, blood bubbling from his mouth. His face was white, blood vivid, almost black against his skin. He looked up at Victor without blinking. There was no fear in his eyes, no hatred, just a cool acceptance of his fate. Victor wondered what his own eyes would betray when his turn eventually came. He turned away from Reed for the last time and thought of Rebecca.

He waded through the water and up the bank, unsteady on his feet. He made his way through the trees, following the path the Jeep had carved until he saw the Russian’s pick-up parked along the road. He stumbled towards it. The keys were still in the ignition.

Victor’s eyes flicked between the analogue clock on the dash and the road ahead as he drove back to the city. Ideally he needed to get as far away as possible before going to a hospital, out of the country preferably. But there wasn’t time. He would bleed to death behind the wheel if he tried.

He drove with heavy eyelids, feeling colder and colder. He was yawning as he pulled up outside a Tanga hospital. He felt himself going as he stumbled into the emergency department. He was greeted by a brief scream.

A nurse’s hand gripped his right arm and pulled him down a corridor. He sagged to his knees as he struggled to keep up with her. She was shouting and asking him questions. He couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then he heard English and somehow Victor managed to make his mouth work and he shouted out his blood type as loud as he could. He would have fallen, but unseen hands pulled him on his feet. His vision was failing as he lay down on a bed. There were other people around him, more nurses, maybe doctors.

He heard wheels squeak.