Reckoning (18 page)

Gage moved into the hallway, no one in sight, the distant sounds of frantic warnings, boots, and shouts merging in the
cathedral. He heard shouting outside. Things were heating up quick. In thirty seconds he'd be the only one in the church. Then they'd just close it off and he'd be trapped. Not even Houdini could get outside after every exit was closed. He had to get back to Barto waiting four blocks away. To Sarah.

As fast as he could, he ran towards the cathedral, pulling two concussion grenades from his pocket. He pulled the pins, holding the levers in place with each hand.

Voluminous and weighty, the coat wrapped itself around him like a waterlogged blanket, heavy and stiff. Still, he hurled himself down the corridor, rubber boots smacking the stones, echoing in his ears above the painful ringing caused by the Hi-Power.

Breath hot, blasting. Tired. Sweating.

He reached the cathedral at full stride, saw that it was almost empty with a disorganized collection of frantic figures running toward the doublewide doors. A group of about ten firefighters, confused, glaring, knowing something had happened but uncertain what, emerged quickly from a darkened hallway to the left of the pulpit.

Gage dropped both concussion grenades behind him, kept running towards them.

"Run!" he screamed. "He's killed him, he kil—"

Twin explosions thundered, striking lightning across the smoke-filled cathedral in a deafening sound wave, booming off the
shadowed recesses of the ceiling and crashing down across them like the wrath of God.

Shouting explosively, the firefighters turned as one, charging back into the corridor.

Gage smiled savagely and then he was with them as they threw themselves recklessly down the dimly lit hallway. Frantic and contradictory instructions were shouted by everyone in unison, each man convinced he knew the surest means of escape and Gage was screaming, "Go straight! Hurry! It's the only way out! Hurry! He'll kill us all!"

In a wild, swirling tide of yellow coats and hats they crashed into the wooden double doors at the end of the corridor. Not even for a second did the lock and chain resist the combined mass that struck it, and they spilled out together into an eastern courtyard, turning without hesitation to charge chaotically towards the street.

Gage followed them, shouting and cursing like the rest. In seconds he was at the front of the church. He glanced around, measuring the state of confusion on the street. Several firefighters, crouching behind vehicles like war veterans, had already pulled illegally concealed firearms from boots and pockets and were glaring angrily towards the cathedral. An elderly fireman was shouting into a microphone. Sirens were hurtling towards the cathedral from surrounding streets. A lot of them. In seconds this place would be shut down like a vault.

Time to move …

A large number of firefighters retreated into the surrounding streets, seeking more positive cover behind walls and brick stair-ways, still yelling in confusion. Gage joined them, running heavily beneath the weight of the fire-resistant clothing, pushing his way through until he passed the alley that ran north off Paulette
Avenue, one block north of the cathedral, fading into the darkness.

He eased down the alley, saw a large blue garbage disposal tank, and stashed the firefighter garb in the cylindrical container. Then he put the silencer on the Hi-Power and placed it in a black daypack that he carried inside the asbestos coat. The
night visor, one remaining concussion grenade, and a phosphorous grenade also went into a pack. Finally, he pulled the blue T-shirt out of his pants, concealing the double-edge fighting knife in a sheath at the small of his back.

Sirens everywhere.

People were shouting and running frantically down the street through the suddenly hot night. Gage watched them pass the narrow opening in the alley, illuminated by the harsh white light of the street lamp.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. Breathing heavily, he wearily wiped a forearm across his brow and leaned over, hands on his knees, resting. He waited a minute, using the seconds to focus, to concentrate. Then he raised up.

No time to waste. Have to put some distance on this place …

He checked his pants pocket, made sure the letter was securely present. Then he shook his hands to loosen and moved north out of the alley, emerging onto the street again.

Discreetly, he unzipped the pack about six inches to place his hand inside it, finding the familiar grip of the Hi-Power. And, still concealing his hand and pistol inside the canvas, he walked slowly forward. Casual.

The mood was calmer but still chaotic on this block, two hundred feet removed from the scene of the chaos. People moved quickly, away from the sirens and shouting echoing down the street. Though some ran toward the scene with the light-footed street readiness of inner-city war veterans, eager to see what had caused the
commotion.

Gage gazed about for a second, scanning, and moved left, keeping to the pedestrian pace of those around him. Not too slow, not too fast.

Calm, calm, keep calm.

He rounded the corner off Fairbanks and turned north again, passing the black iron grating that protected the front of Strong's
Liquor Market. Thirty more feet and something began nagging at him, some half-remembered rule that he had forgotten.

No time to ponder it. Keep moving.

Ninety more feet and he was near the end of the block, doing his best to appear nondescript in his hiking boots, blue T-shirt, and blue jeans. He crossed the street to approach the dark-colored LTD on the passenger's side.

A dim, incipient warning flashed across Gage's mind; mistake, mistake! It was an alarm he couldn't identify, and he neared the car to see Barto alert, both hands clutching the steering wheel, waiting for him to return.

Gage realized what it was when he was 15 feet from the vehicle, saw Barto's wide-eyed readiness, the tight hands waiting eagerly to ferret them away from the scene.

So obvious ...
So easy to see...

It was an all but forgotten remark made at Pathfinder School held at Fort Benning early in that hard, cold winter of 1979 after Gage had twice failed to track down a grizzled old sergeant on the frozen slate of a lower Appalachian mountain.

A trapper and former professional poacher, the sergeant had confessed to Gage after the exercise that the only man who had ever tracked him down in the mountains was an old Georgia Ranger who had foregone the hunt through the forest. Instead, he found where the trapper had parked his pickup truck, then waited for him to return with his fresh kill.

"Yes sir." Gage remembered the old sergeant's words with a bright white flash of alarm. "He was smart, that 'un. He never went into the woods. He just found my truck, waited for me
..."

An adrenaline surge electrified him, but Gage kept walking slowly, eyes vivid, absorbing everything; the crowd congregating at the distant corner, the man and woman walking parallel with him on the opposite side of the street, the big Japanese strolling
casually towards him, ten steps away, hands hanging empty at his sides.

* * *

NINETEEN

Rules of engagement.

First, neutralize the man with the most dangerous weapon. Second, if there are no major weapons, sweep left to right. Third, if no weapons are visible, neutralize the man who holds the closest point of contact.

No weapons in sight. The Japanese had the closest point of contact. Don't worry about the rest.

Eight steps away. Eight seconds.

Gage estimated that he would pass the Japanese side by side directly beside the parked LTD.

Seven steps.

Large for a Japanese, eyes slightly down, hands empty, strolling, moving casually
but that doesn't tell me anything and there's no time for this...

Five steps.

Closest point of contact.

Four steps.

Four seconds.

...
Do something! ... Force him to react! ... Push him! ... Find out what he is!.

NOW!

Instantly Gage angled away, stepping off the sidewalk to walk towards the driver's side of the vehicle while thumbing the safety of the Hi-Power down, grip loosening on the bag.

Gage knew that if the Japanese was a threat he would have to move now or
...

A
blur.

MOVE
!

The Hi-Power came out and Gage fired two frantic shots at point-blank range that he knew had gone wide. The Japanese was on him. A blinding movement with an arm lashing out. Gage twisted to avoid the silver flicker that passed dangerously close to him to
... hit!

Gage turned a half-step to the left, leaped back toward the sidewalk, and he knew the blade had not missed his arm. There was
no pain, no sensation and no time to consider. But he knew it had not missed.

Recovering instantly the Japanese turned and Gage raised the Hi-Power again. The Japanese, white flicker of the knife still held in one hand, pulled a large black pistol with his other hand, an automatic. They whirled face to face, distance of four feet.

Two point-blank thuds from Gage's Hi-Power and the Japanese’s massive handgun erupted between them.

An invisible baseball bat struck Gage in the chest, slamming him backward to the ground. A moment passed before he could think or pull a savage breath. Then he roared at the pain and rolled, stunned...

Oh ... God!

Gage reached for the Hi-Power, couldn't find it. Coughing, he rolled to his side, forgetting the pistol, trying to initiate escape and evade procedures. He ignored his chest, the vest. If he was hit, he would probably die. But if he didn't escape he would assuredly die.

Breath gone, gone.

Get it back, pull, you don't have much time! Get it together!

Gage made it to his knees to see that the Japanese was down also, the magnum lost in the shadows. But the man had retained hold of his knife, the foot long blade protruding from the top of the fist.

Blurring movement down the street.

Blood hot and without blinking Gage reflexively shifted his eyes, identifying instantly: men. He focused: two men. Running towards him, automatic weapons in their hands. Not cops. Cops in civilian clothes wouldn't have automatic weapons.

Threat!

Forty seconds. Forty seconds before they arrived. An estimated two minutes before police. Barto was screaming, out on the street, running around the front of the vehicle. Gage groaned, brought one foot under him, began to rise.

Cursing angrily, the Japanese also staggered up.

Gage moved towards Barto, the car.

A short burst of rounds from the men running towards them hit the LTD and Gage leaped back, away from the vehicle to avoid the pattern of fire. He hit the ground, sprawling, awkward, sliding to cut his palms on the concrete. Gage rolled up again to one knee, full rage rising, trying to control the chaos to assess what he was facing.

The two men were thirty seconds away. Then suddenly the Japanese advanced towards him.

Gage struggled up. Breath gone. Pain.

Fight! Ignore the pain!

Gage heard the LTD take more automatic fire from the
oncoming men. Then Barto was shouting something, then diving into the car. In a second the engine of the LTD fired up. A portion of the windshield blew out and the car tore, screeching, away from the curb. Barto hung a hard left, crossing the street to roar away down an alley.

Gage turned as the Japanese advanced, obviously hurt from the Hi-Power's round. But the fact that he had gotten up told Gage that the man was wearing a ballistic vest, just as he was. Blade low, the Japanese walked forward, face twisted in pain, the purest
purpose of vengeful death in the directness of his approach. Grimacing from wounds as he gained his feet, Gage roared a primal challenge and pulled the stiletto from the sheath at his back. Sweat, blood in his eyes, he moved toward the Japanese.

Nothing else now
…

Just
this ...

They quickened their steps, leaping forward as they met.

A blinding exchange of light that flashed in, caught, swept back out, and empty hands followed the opponent's blade for a trap but the blades were too fast, the opponent too experienced, and the steel of each man passed in again, a bizarre clang of steel and then out, separating, missing a second time as each man leaped outside the other's reach.

With a bellowing scream the Japanese whirled. Gage roared, knife flashing a feint, then blocked a savage blow to catch the Japanese in the leg with a kick. The Japanese countered, slipping outside the blow. Cold steel tore a passage through Gage's ribs. Sensing the injury but not feeling, Gage reacted instantly,
smashing a fist into the man's face to knock him back. And Gage retreated, knowing the trauma of a quickening blood loss.

Face confident, the Japanese recovered and advanced, feinting, testing and then suddenly bridged the gap to sweep his blade in a murderous backhanded slash. Gage had
reacted to the feint but saw the blow and frantically jerked his head back as the blade ripped a path through the air in front of his throat. Then, before the Japanese could stop the momentum of his arm, Gage lashed out, his strength and the entire weight of his body behind the velocity of his blade, driving a straight knife-strike toward his opponent's chest.

Reflex training alone drove his arm, powering a blow backed by countless days of brutal conditioning. Gage had learned that, in war, pure physical strength was often the simple, true divider between the living and dead. So he had made conditioning a
foundation of his training, spending hours running, then lifting weights only to pound the heavy bag afterwards with punches and kicks for fierce, endless rounds. And, finally, when he had continued for as long as he thought he could continue, he would fall into a sort of mystical rhythm, pounding the bag, lifting weights until he couldn't move his arms, pounding and lifting more, and then moving back to the bag.

And he had trained as he would fight, knowing that was where true perfection of movement would be found, at full speed with full power, never letting up, never pacing. Throwing everything, punch and weight, as if his life depended on each blow until unendurable fatigue separated his mind from the movement and the movement itself was all there was. And in achieving the absence of self Gage knew that he was training his body to fight for him without his conscious mind, forging a deep muscle memory that would execute a necessary move with killing efficiency even in a moment when he was too injured to think.

Blasting beneath the Japanese's outstretched arm, Gage slammed the blade into his side, penetrating the ballistic vest with a slicing impact that a bullet could never match. Gage felt the blade strike bone, glance along the ribs.

A savage grunt exploded from the Japanese and Gage grabbed the man's right forearm, the most easily controlled section of his opponent's knife-wielding right hand. But, reacting to the wound in his chest, the Japanese also grabbed Gage's knife hand. Gage tried to tear his wrist loose, managed to pull the blade clear of the man's ribs and vest, and twisted with a Herculean effort to stab downwards, trying for a femoral artery.

The grip was unbreakable.

Gage surged again, trying to tear his wrist loose.

What ... STRENGTH
!

Eyes blazing inches from the other's face, they staggered in a tight circle, each trying to tear his knife hand free of the other's relentless grip.

Gage pulled futilely, failed.

It's over! Get it free or die!

A screaming, superhuman effort and Gage frantically twisted his wrist against the man's thumb, inside and up, felt thin shreds of his skin tear off in the grip.

Free!

A split second. Gage shouted, hot and livid with the instinct and slashed inward to—

A brutal front kick slammed into Gage's chest, knocking him back. Dazed, he crashed to the sidewalk before he groaned at the pain and rolled over, staggering numbly to his feet. He rose, right-side forward with the right knife hand waist-high, eyesight centered by reaction training on his opponent's chest.

In his shaken higher mind Gage realized that the kick had been inhumanly powerful, explosive, a sledgehammer blow that had numbed much of his upper body even beneath the throbbing pains of the magnum and the blade. But he couldn't assess the damage. His chest didn't feel right, but there was no time.

Staggering
, he circled to the left, feeling the wounds now, so many of them, trying to concentrate.

The Japanese leaped forward, moving to Gage's left to cut off his movements, immediately eliminating three of Gage's best angles of attack. And Gage realized that he was facing a highly trained
knife fighter, a man who by unconscious reflex automatically reacted with the perfect tactical movement.

A master.

* * *