Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

Hunter turned to press the attack from behind, but the Target’s own combat reflexes took over, and he spun to face him again.

Now positioned between Hunter and the women.

Not good.

Deception.

Hunter feinted his own lunge, forcing the surprised Target to recoil a step, but instead he leaped to his side, then two quick steps past him toward the women, then pivoting to face him.

Again between them and the Target.

Mock him. Goad him. Use details from his file…

“What’s the matter, Addie,” he said. “Did I give you a boo-boo?”

The Target glanced at his left sleeve, shock in his eyes. A slash across the red flannel was turning a deeper shade, and crimson drops fell from the tips of fingers that now dangled uselessly.

Then his eyes narrowed. He danced back into the center of the room, retreating.

“Again, Mr. Hunter, well played. I believe I underestimated you. As I did your little whore there,” he said, nodding toward Annie. “But you will find that I never make the same mistake twice.”

Hunter knew that he’d lost the initial advantage of surprise. But now the Target was injured and his confidence rattled.

Time to finish this.

He danced out to meet him.

They moved from side to side, warily now, jockeying for position and advantage, looking for openings and mistakes to exploit.

Goad him some more.

“Does Addie want Mommy to come kiss his boo-boo and make it better?”

Watched the anger flare.

But then die. Saw the Target’s eyes grow cold.

Sociopath or not, he had been well-trained. That training was now in control.

He realized he’d lost a psychological weapon, too.

Now it was just a matter of skill. And determination.

He flipped his knife from his right hand to his left, feinted a thrust and snapped it back.

The Target slashed at it, hitting empty air.

He’d hoped for that, and lunged in again, stabbing the tip toward the Target’s exposed chest.

Then everything went wrong.

The Target had anticipated too. Astonishingly quick, he hopped back onto his left foot and leaned away from the blade while snapping a cobra-fast kick with his right, into his left forearm.

Into the still-healing tendons from the dog bite.

The combat knife sailed across the room, clattering off the wall and onto the floor.

He was now exposed, wide open to the Target’s blade.

“Dylan!”

The natural impulse was to jump back. But in an instant calculation born of years of combat training and experience-and before the Target could straighten and recover his two-footed balance, then move in for the kill-he continued his forward momentum instead, rushing into him, seizing him and propelling him backward into a crashing impact against the island. Their bodies fell onto its top, spilling everything onto the floor.

His body was now pressed down upon the Target’s atop the island, their faces inches apart, eye to eye. He looked down into the blank gray depths, sensing fear.

Then something else.

Suddenly he felt searing pain in his left thigh. His breath left him as the agony coursed through him. A look of triumph blazed in the Target’s eyes.

He had to stop a second thrust.

He snapped his forehead down hard, a stunning blow against the bridge of the the Target’s nose. Then again, a crunching smash against his mouth.

Then pushed back, feeling the blade tear out of his leg.

“Dylan!”

Someone’s voice again, far away.

He heard the Target’s bellows of pain but he was dealing with his own. He hopped back, mostly on his right leg, empty-handed, needing to play for time, now, trying to recover his advantage.

Then felt the pulsing in his left thigh, the hot spurts soaking the inside of his jeans, and he knew that time was one thing he wouldn’t have.

He looked up. All the deadly kitchen utensils were scattered around the island, behind the Target.

Who raised himself from the top of the island, his useless left hand pawing at his nose and mouth. His nose was bleeding profusely, his lips a crushed pulp. He spat a bloody mess and Hunter heard the rattle of teeth hitting the floor.

Hunter’s left leg and hand were out of commission.

His right hand was empty.

Only one good leg.

And he started to feel dizzy.

“Dylan!” Another scream.

Annie…

What could he do?

Do what you know best.

Deception.

He staggered back, hopping on his right leg, leaving a trail of blood from his left along the floor. Then stopped. Stood there, tottering. A crimson puddle formed on the floor around his left foot.

He looked at the Target. Saw his eyes follow the smear of blood from the island, across the polished wood floor, to the rapidly growing pool at his feet.

Then Hunter’s left leg buckled beneath him, and he sagged to the floor.

He was sitting, now. Only his upper body and right knee remained upright. He leaned against the raised thigh, his right hand clasping his ankle to keep from falling over.

He was getting dizzier. He knew he was bleeding out.

He raised his head.

He saw that the Target knew it, too. He leaned back against the island on unsteady legs, but his bloodied mouth bore a twisted grin.

Waiting now for him to bleed to death.

Goad him.

“You should see what I did to you, you puke,” Hunter said. “I really did a number on that ugly face of yours.”

Saw the grin vanish.

Hurry…

“What’s the matter, you pussy? Afraid to finish me? I figured you were going to kick the crap out of me.”

The Target’s eyes, so long dead, came to life. Even across the room, he could see the towering rage building in them.

“Dylan!”

“Where are your balls, Wulfe?”

The Target approached him, now, stumbling, still half-stunned, with one immobilized arm, but on two powerful legs and with a long knife in his perfectly good right hand. Coming to finish him.

Deception.

“So go ahead, you worthless piece of shit. Come and stomp me.”

“Dylan! Dylan!”

Hunter clung to the cold, high place.

Hurry…

The Target loomed above him. His face was a ghastly red mask. Savage hatred burned in the once-dead eyes. He paused, weaving slightly.

“Stomp you?” his voice rumbled. “It will be a pleasure.”

He raised a heavy boot to crush his skull.

Just before it reached its apex, Hunter swept up his left arm, batting the foot outward-

– while his right hand shot up and slammed the smaller combat knife from his ankle sheath into the man’s groin.

*

Adrian Wulfe felt a giant spike of incredible pain shoot from his groin upward and outward, a shockwave that reverberated jarringly throughout his entire body. He screamed, an endless scream, dropping the knife, his hands clawing madly below his waist, trying to find the source of the red-hot spike, trying to make it stop, anything to make it stop and he was up on his toes, staggering backward away from the man, away from the source of that pain and he was about to fall…

*

With a last surge of adrenalin, Hunter pushed himself off the floor. He stood, feeling nothing now, watching the strange figure dancing frantically in front of him, then making mincing little steps backward.

He reeled toward that figure, the Target, his Target, the beast who had taken Annie, and now he would put an end to him because he was no longer on that high cold Olympus anymore, he was right down there in some savage place, a place where suppressed rage and controlled violence were now unleashed to rule…

He followed that retreating figure on legs that seemed unreliable, that seemed mired in mud, hurtling through fog, someone yelling his name, eyes on the Target…

And now he caught the Target and was pushing him back, once again bending him backward over that island countertop, collapsing onto him, staring into that mangled face. And then he remembered what he had just done, and he lifted himself enough to see the hilt protruding and blood pouring around it, and then he looked into those eyes, those hateful, bulging, agony-filled eyes, and recalled something else…