The Seven Seals of Egypt

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Alicia skipped aside, using her pace. The MMC lumbered by, an arm outstretched which Alicia saw coming a mile off. Easily, she ducked past that and came back around. Beyond the slobbering monster she saw her team, all watching with worry, agonizing over the outcome, heavily guarded. It was also dreadfully clear that the arena was going to be the place they died, one by one, on this day or another.

Alicia darted one way, then the other, upsetting her big opponent, and managed to leave a trailing leg as she passed him by. She hoped he’d trip, but all he did was bark her shin with his huge ankle bone, making her curse aloud.

The crowd laughed, enjoying her pain. Alicia looked up into the bright sky for a moment then immediately wished she hadn’t.

The MMC charged and her retina was just pure white light. She skipped back, stumbled on a rock and fell. The MMC was over her. He roared and kicked out, the blow glancing off her ribs as she twisted away. She rolled, kept her eyes shut to help clear her vision, then snapped them open and leapt to her feet.

The MMC was right in front of her.

“Strike one!” Saint shouted.

His feet struck her stomach, doubling her over. Alicia felt pain; but where normally she would summon a surge of power and agility to get her the hell out of there, today the lack of food and water was taking its toll.

She fell to her knees. The MMC placed a hand on top of her head and mimed something at the crowd, to which they all burst out laughing. Alicia heard it and the callous hatred that surrounded her, found the inner fury and embraced it.

She rose fast, a fist clenched and punching up right into the MMC’s scrotum. The man howled and then staggered, cupping the area and blowing hard. Alicia saw her only opportunity.

She struck out with lightning blows, each a devastating strike. The MMC took them all, barely flinching. Red marks crossed his chest, neck and face. The pain in his groin made him throw up into the dust. The crowd jeered and Saint couldn’t stop the laughter. She heard encouragement from Dahl and Drake. She worked her way around to the back of the enormous slab of beef, wondering where the sweet spot was.

Having already tried most of the nerve clusters, she was slightly at a loss. But she was sprightly and unharmed, apart from a deep pain in her stomach. The MMC lashed out, an elbow catching her waist. Pain exploded. Alicia backed off. He lashed out again, this time striking only hot air.

He panted, rose to his feet, head hanging. Liquid poured off him in torrents and his black hair hung lankly. He came forward. Alicia bent, grabbed two handfuls of dust and flung them into his eyes. He stood there, rubbing them, blind for a moment.

Alicia ran in, leaped and landed a stunning front kick to his kidneys, followed it with multiple strikes. The MMC groaned and finally flinched. The effort had drained her though, drained her considerably.

She moved back, panting, exhausted.

Saint kicked her in the small of the black, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Drake and Dahl cried out in anger and rushed forward, but warning gunshots into the air stopped their advance. It hardly mattered for now. The MMC was still clearing the dust from his eyes and Alicia used the time to take a breather.

“I guess it’s time for some blood,” Saint said.

He threw a club into the arena, a club studded with nails on every side. The weapon bounced across the ground and came to a rest at the MMC’s feet.

He grinned down at it.

“Old friend.”

Alicia unleashed it all; every ounce of rage she’d stored up over the last twenty four hours. She sprinted like a cheetah chasing lunch, threw herself feet first through the dirt, straight toward the club, but ignoring the actual weapon. Dust and gravel spun up to both sides of her, marking the path of her slide. Her momentum saw her through and as the MMC reached down to grab the club her boots were in perfect line with the top of his skull. She kicked out, still sliding, saw him rear back and passed between his legs.

On the way through she snagged the club with her left hand.

She came up on his rear side, planted her feet and rose. Spun with the club now in both hands, and brought it crashing down onto the MMC’s exposed back. The nails struck and lodged. The MMC arched his back and howled. Alicia kicked him down into the dirt.

She looked over to the Saint as the man fell.

“Finish it.”

“No.”

“Your funeral. He will be back.”

She skirted the groaning figure, now prone and alien-like — the club with its nails sprouting from his back. Blood ran freely into the dirt as men ran on to help him away.

Saint threw Alicia a bottle of water and then turned to the rest of the SPEAR team.

“Guess who’s next?”

Matt Drake took a small swig from the water bottle that Alicia handed round to everyone. Saint watched him walk to the center of the arena as several mercs took aim and cocked their weapons.

Saint held up a hand. “It appears they know you?”

Drake looked up into the stands. “We probably attend the same Yorkshire Pride conventions.”

A shot rang out; the bullet kicked dirt up at Drake’s feet. Saint laughed and gave the stands an indulgent look. “Go on then. Take your shot. Just one, mind.”

Several gunshots rang out. Bullets hammered all around Drake, glancing off the floor, traveling across the arena. He stood immobile, without flinching. Even the slightest show of fear would tell them they’d won.

Saint bellowed for quiet. “Here we go then. Fight number two.”

Drake watched the alcove as a shadow moved. A man came out, dressed in a dark blue suit and wearing a red tie and white shirt. He carried a briefcase, which he laid carefully on the ground, unzipped and then pulled out a meat cleaver.

Drake couldn’t help but shake his head at Saint. “What the fu—”

“The Gentleman.” Saint grinned. “Now Drake, whatever else you do remember what your mom used to say.” He backed off. “Enjoy yourself!”

Drake sidestepped around the arena. The Gentleman kept a light grip on the cleaver, rotating it occasionally in his hand, allowing the bright, clean blade to catch the light. The briefcase lay where he’d left it. Drake was less than three feet from it when The Gentleman attacked.

Blade slashing in downward arcs, left and right and left, he came fast. Drake side-stepped and backed away and then darted past, coming up to the briefcase now and darting a look inside.

The Gentleman stopped, reached a hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small black device with one large yellow button. He pressed it immediately, catching Drake cold as the small explosive he’d left in the briefcase detonated.

The blast knocked Drake off his feet, and sent sharp fragments flying into his body. He landed hard, on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The Gentleman loomed through the smoke, tall and dark and swinging the cleaver.

Drake thrust up his hands, catching the cleaver as it came slicing down. He managed to grab The Gentleman’s wrist just as the blade reached his nose. A sliver of blood was drawn, trickling across his face.

“Fool.”

Drake heard the words and feared the worst. This guy was some kind of trickster. He struggled to push the blade away, rolled to force the man off. His head spun from the blast, his body struggled to work. The Gentleman broke away, reached into the suit and came out with a short stick with two prongs on the end.

Pressed another yellow button and the prongs sizzled.

Gotta get moving…

Drake scrambled clear, but not before the cattle prod came down on his trailing leg. Instant high-voltage ran through his body, making him shake and sending him back to the ground. For a moment it all vanished — the heat, the sunlight, the arena and the stands full of jeering maniacs. Even the one corner of support receded fully from consciousness, the spot where his friends stood.

They were shouting encouragement now, spurred on by Dahl and Alicia. At first they’d been reluctant to take any part in this — but it was happening anyway and Drake needed something to shear away the veneer of agony.

He heard them. The terrible jolting had stopped but there was a pain in his lower rear calf. When he managed to twist a little and look down there his eyes met a horrific sight.

The Gentleman was slicing at his flesh with the edge of the cleaver; carefully, gently, as if stripping meat tenderly from the bone.

That’s exactly what he’s doing!

“Hey,” Drake shouted.

The Gentleman looked up, inquisitive. Blood dripped from the edge of the cleaver.

“You missed a bit.” He pointed where the strip of his flesh was still attached.

The Gentleman looked down.

Drake smashed him in the side of the head with his other foot, the boot slamming point blank in his ear. He fell over, the prod skittering away. Drake crawled back, realizing this was the best chance he’d get but unable to act quickly.

His body was still recovering and, like Alicia, his energy was already sapped.

Breathing deeply, he rose to his feet, allowing The Gentleman to do the same. Drake’s head still rang from the blast; his vision slightly blurry. The harsh glare of the sun, beating down, didn’t help.

“Hey,” he shouted to gain a few more seconds of recovery. “You got any paracetamol in that inside pocket?”

The Gentleman looked unsure, reached inside, and came out with a grenade.

Drake ignored the rush of anxiety, as his body knew it could not take another explosion. Calling on every moment of experience, he watched The Gentleman’s arm, saw the flick of the finger when the pin was released, followed the arc of the throw.

Ran toward the grenade and met it bluntly. With his foot. He kicked the small round object away, then threw himself to the side. It was a good kick, the grenade curving up out of the arena and heading for the stands. Curses split the air and men scrambled out of the way. The grenade bounced down once and exploded.

Drake rolled and looked up.

A man was flung back by the blast, bounding off the rock-face and falling limply; another was cut by sharp fragments. Rubble flew indiscriminately and a minor cloud rolled into the air. Men rubbed and tried to repair nasty injuries, most of them sending deathly looks straight at Drake.

The Yorkshireman had other things on his mind. The Gentleman was already attacking again, slashing with the cleaver. Drake guarded the blows by blocking wrist against wrist, hoping one of the impacts might slam the cleaver out of the other’s grip. He was pushed back, boots slipping in the grit.

Saint’s voice interrupted them. “Round two!”

Several men threw objects into the ring.

Drake summoned a huge burst of energy, kicked out, and forced The Gentleman back, clearing space all around him. Several of the objects he recognized instantly. His own Glock. A knife. The club that had been taken out of the MMC’s back. A sword. A battered old Uzi. A wicked looking machete.

No easy choice.

Drake saw confusion on The Gentleman’s face. He hadn’t expected this but, without the slightest pause, he ran for the Glock. Drake was less sure, assuming subterfuge on the part of Saint, and ran for one of the weapons that couldn’t be misrepresented. The gaps between them were short; fitness essential.

Dropping the cleaver, The Gentleman scooped up the Glock and turned. Drake already had the knife. He didn’t wait to see if he was right about the gun; just flung the short blade end over end so that the point embedded fully to the hilt in The Gentleman’s throat. Reflex took over and the dying man’s finger pulled the trigger.

Aimed right at Drake’s head.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Drake turned to Saint, said, “Fuck you.”

And walked out of the ring.