The Assassin's Prayer (18 page)

The
man nodded, dropped into a combat crouch, and hustled over the mist-shrouded
terrain until he hugged the cabin wall. He cautiously edged toward the porch. The
air was so still that even from fifty yards away, Kain could hear the shattered
glass crunching under the operative’s boots. He watched with grim anticipation as
the man ascended the rickety steps and kicked open the door.

The
cabin erupted in a massive, disintegrating blast. The roof lurched into the
sky, riding a mushroom cloud of roiling flame. The walls burst apart and
sprayed sharp fragments of wood in all directions like shrapnel, turning the
Talon soldier into human confetti.

Macklin
and his remaining operatives ducked for cover behind the Hummers as burning debris
washed over them. A flaming board bounced off a windshield in a splash of sparks.
A Talon gunner crumpled to the ground with a sword-sized shard of wood embedded
in his throat. More high-velocity wood slivers ripped open another man’s leg, slashing
his femoral artery in three different places and guaranteeing a quick demise.

From
his place of concealment, Kain watched Macklin climb to his feet, mud dripping
from his hands, knees, and elbows. If Macklin was smart, he would retreat,
withdraw the few troops he had left, and reorganize for another assault at a
later time. But Kain had no intention of letting that happen.
It ends today,
he thought.
Right here, right now.

With
Macklin positioned on the far side of the Hummer, Kain didn’t have the proper
angle to kill his nemesis just yet. But he could damn sure keep him from
getting away.

Kain
raised the shotgun. Fog fell from the barrel like an unwanted veil. He pressed it
to his shoulder and lined up the sights, aiming low. Only moments ago, his rage
had been white-hot; now it was ice-cold.

Focused
on the fiery ruin of the cabin and his dying men, Macklin never sensed the
danger lurking in the fog behind him.

Kain
pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The
buckshot whipped under the Hummer and chopped into Macklin’s exposed boots.

The
blasts shredded through his calves and ankles and literally blew his feet off.
Macklin went down, grunting in sudden pain, but managed to pull himself behind
the front tire and out of the line of fire. Kain glimpsed a mess of torn flesh
and splintered bone where Macklin’s lower legs should have been. Unless he
could walk on his bloody stumps, Macklin wasn’t going anywhere.

His
enemy hobbled by a twelve-gauge double amputation, Kain turned his attention to
the remaining two Talon commandos.

Both
were on Kain’s side of the Hummers. Neither knew where Kain was because he was
crouched down low in the fog. This lack of knowledge meant they could not take
evasive action; in order to move away from a threat, one must know where the
threat is located. So they simply knelt down beside the vehicles and scanned
the woods, peering over assault weapons tucked tight to their shoulders, seeking
target acquisition.

They
quickly found out
they
were the targets and they had already been
acquired.

Kain
triggered two quick shots from the SPAS-12. The first operative took the brunt
of the blast right below the eyebrows and went somersaulting backward with the
top half of his head churned to pulp. The second Talon soldier caught a dose of
buckshot low in his torso. The sledgehammer blow folded him in half and he
flopped face-down in the muck.

Smoke
twisted in ghostly curls from the barrel of the shotgun as Kain stood up,
watching impassively as the two bodies twitched spastically. Black Talon was
decimated, gutted, a total loss. All that remained was to put down the mad dog
that had led them.

“Wait
here,” Kain said to Larissa.

“Where
are you going?”

“To
finish this.”

He
edged cautiously toward the Hummer behind which Macklin sat, badly wounded. But
even badly wounded, Kain knew better than to underestimate Macklin. The man had
survived having his throat cut. It would take more than losing his feet to rob
him of his lethality.

As
he crossed the pungent, swampy earth, Kain saw a shape moving inside the cab of
the Hummer. He instantly realized that Macklin had crawled in. Kain closed the
gap as fast as he could, but Macklin managed to slam the door shut and hit the
locks, securing himself inside a shell of armor plating and bulletproof glass.

Kain
stood outside and glared at him. He thought about venting his frustration by
emptying the SPAS-12 into the windshield, but knew it would just be a waste of
shells.

Inside
the Hummer, Macklin quickly ripped strips from his shirt and fashioned
tourniquets which he tied around both thighs to keep himself from bleeding out.
When he was done, he leaned back in the passenger seat, face an unhealthy shade
of white, but smiling his cruel, razor-slash of a grin. “So close, Kain, and
yet so far.”

“You’re
acting like the game is over,” Kain said. “From where I’m standing, looks like checkmate,
asshole.”

“I’ve
stopped the bleeding, so all I have to do now is call for backup and then sit
here and wait. You say I’ve lost the game, I say I’m just pausing.”

Kain
smiled coldly. “Hold that thought.”

He
walked back over to Larissa and pulled a brick of C-4 out of his duffel bag.

“Is
it over?” she asked.

“Almost,”
Kain said. “Just need to burn the snake out of his hole.”

He
walked back over to the Hummer and slapped the explosive onto the windshield
right in front of Macklin’s face.

Macklin’s
grin faded and for a moment there was true fear in his eyes. But he recovered
quickly. “Go ahead,” he taunted. “I’d rather be blown to bits than come out
there and let you get your hands on me.”

“Sit
there and burn,” Kain rasped, setting the detonator for thirty seconds, “or
come out here and let me kill you.” He plunged the detonator into the C-4.
“Either way, you’re dead.”

He
ducked behind a tree outside the blast radius and yelled, “Larissa, keep your
head down! Fire in the hole!” He peered around the trunk just enough to lock
eyes with Macklin through the windshield as the numbers ran down toward zero.

Macklin
held fast and defiant until there were just five seconds to go. Then his
survival instincts kicked into high gear. He scrambled to open the door and
threw himself out as the final second expired.

The
explosion tore the Hummer apart.

The
fiery blast picked Macklin up in midair like a giant fist and hurled him into a
nearby tree. He smashed into it with his back and his body folded around the
trunk at an unnatural angle, like a piece of cooked spaghetti thrown against a
fence post. Even over the crackle of flames, Kain heard the crisply audible
crack of Macklin’s spine snapping in two.

Kain
found the Talon leader lying broken and paralyzed at the foot of the tree. The
blast had singed off most of his hair and his clothes were smoldering. He gazed
up at Kain with eyes that begged for death.

Kain
was happy to oblige.

He
pulled out his dagger and crouched down in front of Macklin. Without hesitation,
he drove the blade hilt-deep into the side of Macklin’s neck, at the exact
point where the ghastly scar began. “This is for my wife, you son of a bitch,”
he rasped, then rip-sawed the razor-sharp knife all the way through Macklin’s
throat, following the path of the scar, cutting carotids, jugular, and windpipe
in one savage stroke. “This time you die for real.” Blood spurted in a geyser
from the gaping wound.

Kain
ignored the splatter and stared into Macklin’s eyes as he died. It was finally over.
The man who had murdered his wife, gunned down Larissa’s husband, and who had
put a bullet in her head and blinded her for life, was finally dead.

He
stood up and headed back to the other side of the road where Larissa waited. As
he rounded the rear of the burning Hummer, he walked past the fallen body of
the Talon operative he had shotgunned low in the torso. With his attention
focused on getting back to Larissa, he never saw the operative—whom he had
believed to be dead—raise the MP-5/10 with a trembling hand.

His
first hint of danger was a triple burst of autofire from behind him. All three
slugs flew wide due to the gunner’s unsteady hand, but not by much. They slammed
into a tree to Kain’s left, carving away splinters and fragments.

He
reacted instantly, rolling to his right behind another tree, using it to shield
himself from the Talon soldier. He desperately looked for Larissa.

She
was right where he had left her, hidden in the fog, just her head visible
through the thin wisps that formed the top layer of the mist. She was smart
enough to stay down, but she couldn’t keep from crying out, “Travis!”

The
Talon gunner fired in the direction of her voice, spraying the fog with
bullets.

Kain
heard the telltale slap of lead against flesh and saw Larissa’s head jerk to
the side. Icy fingers reached into his chest and gripped his heart as he saw
blood cascading down her face. She slumped into the mud as the fog turned
crimson.
No!
Kain screamed silently, the words trapped in his
constricted throat.
Not again!

He
raised the SPAS-12, Larissa’s blood-drenched face driving him to kill. The
shotgun roared again and again and again, smashing apart the man’s chest and shredding
his heart and lungs.

The
threat neutralized, he ran to Larissa, pulling her close and frantically
feeling for a pulse. It was weak and fluttery, but it was there. She was alive,
but God only knew for how long. The left side of her face was dark with blood. He
had to get her to a hospital.

His
breath plumed in the autumn air and he trembled, not from the cold, but from
the thought of losing her.
Please, God, don’t let her die on me.

He
cradled her head in his lap and tried to wipe away the blood, but there was too
much of it, making it impossible to tell how much damage the bullet had done. He
ripped off two strips from his shirt. He folded one into a makeshift bandage,
covered the wound, then used the other strip to tie around Larissa’s head and
hold the bandage in place. It was rudimentary first aid, but the best he could
do under these conditions.

He
carried Larissa to the second Hummer and strapped her into the passenger seat.
The woods had become silent and still in the aftermath of combat. As Kain
climbed behind the wheel, he heard the crackle and pop of flames as the cabin
continued to burn. He turned the key and the Hummer rumbled to life. Gunning
the gas, Kain whipped the vehicle around in a tight U-turn, crunching Macklin’s
half-decapitated corpse under the oversized tires as he did so and not giving a
damn.

He
resisted the urge to pin the pedal to the floor. The path was rough enough as
it was; high speed would only intensify the bouncing and jarring and might do
more damage to Larissa’s head wound.

Assuming
she’s alive at all.

Kain
crushed that thought before it could sink its barbs in.

Time
crawled. The trail seemed to go on forever. But dirt finally turned to blacktop
and Kain punched it, tires screaming in protest. He wiped the sweat from his
brow and cracked a window to let in some air. Wind rushed into the cab and Kain
felt something brush against his arm. He glanced down. It was Larissa’s hair,
the silken strands sodden with blood, red on gold.

Guts
churning, he drove faster.

CHAPTER 17

With
the pedal pinned, it took Kain less than twenty minutes to reach Glens Falls
Hospital. Larissa slumped in the seat, held up only by her safety belt,
horribly still the entire way. Kain kept thinking she had died, but when he
placed his fingers against her neck, he could feel a weak pulse. She was a
fighter, possessed by an incredible will to live. She had cheated death once.
Kain prayed she could cheat it again.

He
pulled up to the Emergency entrance and exited the vehicle without killing the
ignition. The rumble of the Hummer’s engine echoed loudly off the hospital
walls. He left the SPAS-12 in the cab, keeping only the Colt. Moving quickly,
he unfastened Larissa from the seatbelt and lifted her in his arms. She was a
rag doll, her head lolling limply on her neck.

The
automatic doors parted with a pneumatic hiss as he carried her inside. Blood
dripped from the now-sodden makeshift bandage, the droplets absurdly red under
the bright lights, as if they belonged in some abstract painting. Kain felt
fear and panic gnawing away at him as he headed for a set of double doors in
front of him.

A
nurse darted out from behind a desk, her eyes sizing up Kain and the bloody
bundle in his arms. “What happened to her?”

“She’s
been shot in the head.”

“This
way.”

Kain
followed her through the double doors into a long corridor. The nurse led him into
the first room on the right and pointed to the examination table. Kain laid
Larissa down, careful not to jostle her head. The room smelled of antiseptic.

The
nurse snatched the phone from the wall. “Get Dr. Morrow down here now!” she
said to whoever was on the other end of the line. “I’ve got a Code Two GSW in
Trauma One.”

Kain
couldn’t take his eyes off Larissa. Even now, covered with blood, she was
beautiful. He should have told her that. There were a lot of things he should
have told her. And now it looked like he might never get another chance.

A
doctor burst into the room, stethoscope flapping around his neck. Kain looked
at the ID tag clipped to the pocket of his white coat. Dr. Morrow, a short man
with a receding hairline, gentle eyes, and the long, slender fingers of a
surgeon. “Status report,” he said to the nurse as he started toward Larissa.
But he hesitated when he glimpsed the gun under Kain’s duster. He eyed Kain
warily, giving him the kind of look usually reserved for strange dogs when you don’t
know whether to believe the wagging tail or the bared teeth.

Kain
pulled his coat tight around him, concealing the Colt. “Please,” he said,
hoping his voice conveyed his growing desperation, “help her.”

“I
want to,” Morrow said, “but the gun…”

“Is
no threat to you,” Kain said. “You have my word on that.”

Morrow
didn’t look fully convinced, but he got down to business. As he peeled off the
bandage, he said to the nurse, “Get me some help in here, stat.” When he
dropped the bandage into a stainless steel basin, it made a soggy splat sound
that Kain found disturbing. It was a hopeless sound that reeked of finality. Morrow
pulled the overhead light down for a closer inspection of Larissa’s wound. The
nurse was on the phone, calling for assistance.

Kain
had never felt so helpless. He wanted to beg, plead, say something, anything,
to let Morrow know just how desperate he was for Larissa to survive. But they
were beyond words at this point. Morrow would do his job and Larissa would
either live or die. It was as simple as that.

He
knew he couldn’t stay here much longer. The police would be called soon, if
they hadn’t already. It was standard hospital procedure for gunshot wounds. He
leaned over Larissa’s lifeless form. “I’ll be back,” he whispered softly, knowing
she couldn’t hear him but needing to tell her anyway.

Footsteps
pounded in the corridor outside. The door burst open and what seemed like a mob
of hospital personnel poured in. Kain slipped out of the room as people began
to scurry this way and that, players in an orchestra of organized chaos
designed to pull Larissa back from the brink of death.

Out
in the hallway, Kain leaned against the wall and tried to compose himself. His
emotions were jagged fragments floating randomly through his heart and soul, unable
or unwilling to come together and form a cohesive picture. He wanted to go back
into the room, wanted to stay with Larissa as she fought for her very life. But
he knew he couldn’t. If he stayed here, he would be taken into custody when the
police arrived and he would be no good to Larissa behind bars. Besides, there
was something he needed to do. Something he should have done a long time ago.

He
walked away before he could change his mind. With every step further away from
Larissa, his conscience punished him, accused him of abandoning her when she
needed him most. But he kept walking, because he had no other choice.

Outside,
clouds thickened the sky and a light drizzle spattered the windshield like
tears as Kain got into the Hummer and drove away.

******

As
he drove out of the hospital parking lot, Kain saw police cars approaching.
Their pulsating lights painted a surrealistic red and blue montage on his
windshield, the colors smeared by the rain. Kain tensed, knowing that if anyone
had told the cops that he was driving a Hummer, it was game over. The early
stages of a headache pounded on his temples as the wail of sirens pierced his
eardrums and needled into his brain. The wipers flicked back and forth like a
metronome, hypnotic in their regularity and rhythm.

The
police flashed by in blurs of light and sound. Kain saw by the markings on the cars
that they were city boys. Either nobody had called the State Police or they
were just lagging behind. Either way, he didn’t intend to stick around to find
out. He merged with traffic and made his way out of the city.

He
made one stop along the way, a used car lot that hadn’t opened yet, ditching
the Hummer in favor of a nondescript Ford Ranger 4x4. He quickly hot-wired the
truck and got back on the road. The Ranger was badly out of alignment, pulling
hard to the right, and the interior smelled like moldy gym socks, but it ran.

Kain
turned on the wipers, sluicing away the rain, and listened to the tires hiss
over the wet road in a vain attempt to take his mind off Larissa. With every
passing mile, it became harder and harder not to turn around and go back. Not
knowing if she was alive or dead gnawed at his guts.

He
was so distracted that he failed to notice the black Toyota Tacoma tailing him.
All he could think about was Larissa and his combat instincts paid the price,
dulled by his troubled heart. The Toyota stayed several cars back as Kain drove
through town, following in his wake like a disembodied shadow, just one vehicle
amidst many.

Kain
turned off Burgoyne Avenue onto Route 196 and started across what the locals
called the Flats, a three-mile, arrow-straight stretch of road with nothing on
either side save barns, crop fields, and barbed wire fences. Glancing in the
rearview mirror, he saw the black Tacoma about a hundred yards back, but paid
it no mind. Route 196 was the main connection between Hudson Falls and Hartford
and saw more traffic than one might think, considering it was just a two-lane
country road.

The
next time he looked in the rearview, the Tacoma completely filled it. Kain had
time for one thought—
What the hell?
—and then the truck rammed him, metal
crunching on metal.

At
60 mph, the impact nearly sent Kain sailing off the road. He fought the Ford
for control, teeth gritted as the back end fishtailed wildly. For one
breathless instant, he was sure he was going to end up in the ditch. He
wrenched at the wheel, straining to keep the Ranger on the road. The tires
suddenly found their grip again, biting into the shoulder. Kain whipped back
onto the pavement, dirt and stones spraying everywhere.

The
Tacoma pulled up alongside the Ford. Kain looked over and saw the spurting
flame of a muzzle flash. The window exploded over him in a wave of glass. He
felt the bullet sizzle past him close enough to singe the tip of his nose
before blowing out the opposite window. Wind and rain howled into the cab, cold
and stinging.

He
stomped the brakes. The Ford shuddered to a rubber-screeching halt. The Tacoma
shot past him like a missile. Kain throttled the steering wheel as if it was
the throat of the driver who was trying to kill him. Anger and adrenalin pumped
through his veins.

Up
ahead, the Tacoma skidded to a halt and swung around so that it was facing
Kain. They looked like two rivals preparing to play a game of chicken. Kain
locked onto the face of the driver and a jolt ran through him.

Silas.

Kain
didn’t waste time trying to figure out how Silas had found him, because it
didn’t matter. He just stared at his former best friend and Silas stared back,
years’ worth of dark emotions bridging the gap between the two vehicles like
telepathic waves. Silas’ right eye gleamed hotly, a burning star in the
stone-like mask of his face, while his left eye—what was left of it anyway—was
hidden beneath a black patch. He had to be in incredible pain. It had only been
twenty-four hours since his eye had been shredded, but instead of recuperating in
a hospital bed, Silas was out here hunting the one who had wounded him. Kain
wondered how much morphine he had jacked into his system in order to function.

Silas
held the steering wheel in one hand, a Glock-17 automatic in the other. The
look on his face was one of grim finality and at that precise moment, Kain knew
they had reached the end of the line. Something dark and cold seeped into his
blood, a strange numbness that somehow hurt worse than any pain.

He
punched the gas. Rubber screamed in protest as it was peeled off the tires and
pasted to the pavement in smoking stripes. Up ahead, the Tacoma did the same and
the two trucks hurtled toward each other on a collision course. The shattered
side windows gave the elements access and rain stabbed at Kain’s eyes like icy
needles. Through the liquid veil, he saw the Tacoma approaching fast.

At
the last possible second, Kain jerked the wheel to the right. The other truck
flashed by, missing him by inches. Kain’s pulse pounded but beneath it all was
a sense of loss that he had never expected to feel. One of them was going to
die this morning and no matter who it was, neither of them would ever be the
same again. Regardless of who was left standing when this was over, the sins of
the past had left their mark on them both.

Forgive,
forget, and walk away,
an inner voice
urged.

But
Kain knew it was too late for that.

He
slammed the brakes and guided the Ford through a tightly-controlled skid so
that it was once again facing the Toyota, which had also swung around for
another pass. He wiped the rain off his face, then drew his Colt .45 and cocked
the hammer. “All right, Silas,” he growled. “Let’s finish this.”

As
if on cue, the Tacoma surged forward.

Kain
pinned the pedal to the floor.

The
two vehicles devoured the road like a pair of buzz-saws, rapidly closing the
gap between them. Kain steered with his right hand, his left gripping the Colt,
eyes slitted against the wind and rain razoring through the cab.

When
the Tacoma was only thirty yards away, less than two seconds from impact, Kain
thrust the .45 out the window and fired several rapid rounds at the Toyota’s
driver-side front tire. At least one of the rounds struck home. The tire
exploded with a bang, the sound snatched away by the wind.

The
Tacoma veered crazily out of control, barely missing Kain’s truck. Its rear end
sloughed around and Kain caught a glimpse of Silas fighting the wheel as the
vehicle barreled toward the ditch. Rags of rubber shot everywhere and sparks
flew as the bare metal rim bit into the blacktop. Then the blacktop became the
shoulder and the shoulder became the ditch. The Tacoma nosed in at close to 40
mph. Metal crunched, dirt and debris geysered into the air, and the truck came
to an abrupt, bone-shattering halt.

The
same could not be said for Silas.

He
obviously had not been wearing a seatbelt, for when the Tacoma slammed head-on into
the ditch, inertia flung him through the windshield in a spray of glass. He
looked like a scarecrow pin-wheeling through the air, arms flailing against the
rain and gravity.

Kain
watched grimly as the ground rushed up to meet Silas, sucking him down into a snarled
hell-zone of half-rotted fence posts and badly-rusted coils of barbed wire. Screaming
horribly, he thrashed and twisted in midair, reminding Kain of a cat hurled off
a roof by some cruel kid. But nothing could save him from landing in the tangled
pile of wire.

Silas
screamed in pain as the steel coils snapped around him. Barbs tore his clothes
to tatters and sank into his flesh like fish hooks. The wire wrapped around his
wrists like bracelets, chewing at the veins there. More strands whipped across
his face, neck, legs, and chest. Kain watched Silas struggle against the
metallic cocoon, but the more he fought, the tighter the razored embrace
became. He was hopelessly entangled, trapped in a sharp steel web. Kain couldn’t
make out the exact nature of the wounds from here, but he could see a lot of
blood. It was the kind of blood spillage that someone didn’t walk away from. Not
so long ago, that sight probably would have given him great pleasure. Now he
wasn’t sure what he felt. Silas finally lay still, apparently realizing that
every movement only dug the rusty fangs in even deeper.