Nelson DeMille: The Lion

He said to me, "I know you are alone, and I want you to know that I, too, am alone." He said, unnecessarily, "It is just us. As you requested, and as it should be."

I nodded.

He nodded in return and said, "I saved you for last, Mr. Corey."

I replied, "I saved you for myself."

He smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. He said, "I didn't feel a bulletproof vest when I knocked you to the ground."

I didn't reply.

"No matter. I am not going to shoot you in the heart." He held up his gun and said to me, "This is the gun of your deceased wife. I am looking forward to shooting off your manhood with this gun."

He had a few more things to say before he did that, and I thought about a few moves I could make, but none of them seemed promising.

Without moving my head, my eyes darted around at what was nearby. My gun was too far away, and there was nothing close by that I could use. I quickly scanned the top of the distant foundation walls. The observation deck was closed, and even if someone was walking by at street level, they couldn't see this far into the dark pit.

Khalil said, "Look at me. There is no one here to help you." He let me know, "They are all dead. The two policemen in their comfortable trailer are dead. And as you can clearly see, your superior officer is close by, but he cannot help you." He held up a cell phone and said, "His final message to you is this-Asad Khalil has won."

Again, I felt the rage and anger taking over-this psychotic piece of shit, this cold-blooded, murdering- "Did it not occur to you, Mr. Corey, that this was not as it seemed?"

I looked at him and I thought about that. Maybe it did occur to me, way deep down inside… so deep that I just left it there because… it didn't matter to me if it was Paresi or Khalil.

He said to me, "I have dreamed about this moment. Have you?"

I nodded.

He looked at me and said, "It was fated that we meet, but often we must help fate." He smiled again and said, "Both of us have helped fate tonight, and it is my fate, Mr. Corey, to cut off your face."

I assumed he brought his own knife for that, and I said to him, "Try it. Put the gun down and try it, asshole."

He ignored my invitation and glanced around. He said to me, "Here we are, where three thousand of your countrymen died."

I reminded him, "There were hundreds of Muslims who died in the Towers."

He ignored that, too, and said, "This, I think, is a good place for you to die as well." He asked me, "Did I choose well?"

I didn't reply, and I wondered if he somehow knew that Kate and I had actually come within minutes of dying here on 9/11. But I didn't die here then, and I wasn't going to die here now.

In fact, he said to me, "But I will not kill you unless you force me to. I will, however, shoot you in the groin, then slice off your face as I promised."

I had no reply to that.

He reached behind his back and produced a long, wide knife. He said, "This is what I will use, and you will be alive to feel it and to see your face being pulled from your skull."

He was into taunting, which was part of the ritual for most pleasure killers. And they get so deep into their fantasies that they forget to be careful.

Khalil, however, was also a trained killer, and he asked me, "Do you have another gun?"

Well, I did, but I loaned it to Kate. I didn't reply.

He looked at me, then said, "I didn't feel one… but…" He stuck his knife back in his belt, and then he surprised me-or maybe not-by also sticking his gun-Kate's gun-in his belt at his right side.

He stood perfectly still, looking right at me. His legs were slightly parted and bent at the knees, and his arms were away from his sides. Did he learn that from Boris? Or too many cowboy movies?

As though he read my mind, he said, "You are a cowboy-no? Is your gun hand faster than mine? Please. Reach for your gun."

Well, if I had one, asshole, the first and last thing you'd see was the flash of the muzzle. It also occurred to me that Khalil would rather not fire a shot that could be heard… or maybe he simply preferred the knife.

He straightened up and said, "You either have no gun, or you are a coward."

Well, I had no gun, but I did have a knife he didn't seem to know about. I said, "I can't hear you. Step closer."

He drew his knife again and moved toward me, saying, "I once flayed a man's flesh from his chest, and I could see his ribs, his lungs, and his beating heart."

As he came closer, I could see his face more clearly, and he looked exactly like the photograph in the wanted poster-deep, dark, narrow-set eyes, separated by a hooked nose that gave him more the appearance of a bird of prey than a lion.

He kept coming closer, brandishing his long knife, a big smile on his face.

I stepped back, and he smiled wider. He was really having fun.

He moved closer, slicing the air with his knife.

I stepped back again, and he closed the gap.

He let me know, "If you turn and run, I will shoot your legs out from under you, then butcher you."

"I'm not running."

"No, but you are stepping backward. Come to me. Fight like a man."

"You have the knife, asshole. Put it down."

He flipped the knife into the air, then caught it by its handle and smiled again.

He was really enjoying this, and to be honest, I was not. I knew this guy could slice me up if I made a move toward him, so I again backed off. It was time to end his fun, so I reminded him, "Your mother was a whore."

He screamed something and charged at me.

I turned, took a running step, pretended to slip in the mud, then drew my knife and spun around on my knees and let him run into the K-bar, which caught him in his groin.

He let out a surprised scream and backpedaled away as I charged in for the kill before he went for his gun.

He had his knife hand over his groin and his other hand was reaching for the Glock as he backpedaled, and he lost his footing in the mud and fell backward.

The only move I had was to dive on him to keep him away from the Glock, and I made a running jump and landed full on his chest as he was starting to raise his legs to catapult me into the air.

I saw his arm coming around, and I felt his knife cutting into the back of my shoulder blade, scraping across the bone.

His arm was rising again for another stab, and I grabbed his wrist. I kept the full weight of my body on him as he struggled to get me off him and get his knife hand free.

My knife hand was free, and his left hand was free, but instead of reaching for his gun, he made the right decision to grab my arm before I got my blade into his face or throat.

He got a tight grip on my wrist, then lifted his head and got his teeth into my cheek and bit down hard on the maxillary nerve, which sent flashes of pain through my head.

He was still holding my wrist, but I managed to get my arm up, and I brought the butt end of the heavy K-bar down on the top of his head.

He released his bite on my cheek, and I twisted my hand to bring the business end of the knife into the top of his skull, but he was incredibly strong and he pulled my arm away and held it.

So we were locked together, neither of us able to use our knives, and this would go on until one of us weakened, or did something unexpected-or desperate.

He was in very good physical shape, and he didn't seem to be tiring as we each tried to break free from the other's grip.

He tried a few times to get his knee in my groin, but he had no leverage, and I kept my full weight on him. Then he tried to get his teeth into my face again, but I kept my head tilted back.

I had no idea where I'd stuck him. Genitals? Thigh? Lower abdomen? But I knew the wound wasn't bleeding enough to weaken him. My own wound felt warm and wet, but I didn't think he'd done too much damage.