Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

Shoving Alicia aside, he dove across the table, sweeping up both weapons. He brought his hands up, the Uzi in each spitting bullets that stitched both men across the chest with ragged red flowers blooming larger and larger until they merged into a single crimson stain.

It had all taken perhaps three seconds, three ticks of a clock. The small room so stank of cordite, blood, and death that Lang nearly gagged. He was deaf from the shots in such close quarters, and his eyes wept from acrid wisps of burned gunpowder.

He dropped the Uzis and turned to pull Alicia to her feet. She looked straight at him without seeing, a catatonic stare of stunned fright.

Holding one Uzi, Lang took her hand in the other, speaking words he himself could not hear. "Come on, Alicia; we can't stay here."

On legs as uncertain as those of a newborn colt, she stood and transferred her stare to someplace over Lang's shoulder.

At first he thought he might be hallucinating.

Blocking the doorway was a tall man in his mid- thirties, clean-shaven and with a recent haircut.

Witherspoon.

The would-be FBI man spoke words Lang's ringing ears could only partially hear, but there was no mistaking the Desert Eagle he held in his hand.

With a shove Lang pushed Alicia out of the line of fire, a motion that diverted Witherspoon's eyes just long enough for Lang to raise one of the Uzis.

He felt, rather than heard, the dull click of the hammer on an empty chamber. The damn clip had been half- empty when he grabbed the gun.

Shit.

Witherspoon had heard it. Lowering his weapon, he moved with the grace of a professional fighter. He smashed his Desert Eagle against the side of Lang's head, sending him slipping across the blood-slicked floor. The force of impact with the far wall knocked the second Uzi from his grasp.

Ears ringing both from the gunshots and the blow, Lang did not have to hear all the man's words as he stuck his own weapon into his belt and charged. The murderous gleam in his eye said it all: Witherspoon intended to literally kill Lang with his bare hands.

Before Lang could regain his feet, Witherspoon's heavier weight was pinning him to the floor while large hands sought to choke the life from him.

Tugging at the ever-closing fingers was useless. Witherspoon was not only larger; he was stronger. Already Lang was desperately sucking at what little air his hungry lungs could ingest.

Lang groped for the gun in the man's belt and realized the effort was hopeless. Instead he used all of his remaining strength to arch his back into a wrestler's bridge that lifted his shoulders and shifted both his and Witherspoon's weight slightly forward.

The pressure eased slightly, allowing Lang to twist quickly to his right, free his left arm, and roll violently back, smashing the point of his elbow against the side of his adversary's head. As Witherspoon recoiled from the blow, Lang scrambled out from under him and began to stagger to his feet.

Witherspoon was on him before Lang was fully erect. This time, though, Lang was able to get his arms inside his enemy's outstretched hands, shunting them aside. With his arms spread for just an instant, Witherspoon was vulnerable.

Lang put every ounce of weight and strength into a strike not of his fist but of fingers cupped to fit just under Witherspoon's sternum, driving the wind from his opponent's diaphragm with the whoosh of a deflating balloon.

Lang had intended to snatch the automatic from Witherspoon's belt before the man could gasp his next breath. Instead the force of the contact had knocked the gun loose, sending it clattering across the floor.

Without hesitation Witherspoon reached into a pocket. As his hand swung forward there was a metallic snick. The long dagger of a switchblade glistened evilly. From the way he held it-blade up, arm bent-Lang guessed the man had had some experience in using it.

"You're not in your office, now, Reilly," he sneered. "You won't be ushering me out like some salesman."

He was tossing the knife from one hand to the other and back again.

"Learn that at the FBI academy?" Lang asked, surprised he could now hear his own voice.

Witherspoon was moving in a semicircle, taking side steps so that he always maintained his balance. Lang was reminded of the dance of a fighter looking for an opportunity to deliver the knockout punch. "All that matters to you, Reilly, is that I learned it."

Lang was also moving to keep squarely in front of Witherspoon. "There's no point in this, you know. You heard the helicopters. The Israeli police will be here in seconds. I wouldn't want to have a weapon in hand when they burst through that door."

Witherspoon's lips curled back from his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "So what? I didn't come all the way back to Israel to surrender, to let you undermine my people's right to their own land. If I die for that cause, I'll be happy."

"Oh, come off it! Even your Muslim neighbors get multiple virgins in paradise for martyrdom."

"Less talk, Reilly. It's time for you to die."

Retreating a step, Lang groped behind him, his hand touching one of the chairs. He snatched it up by the back, holding it out like a circus performer confronting a ring full of snarling lions.

Witherspoon shoved it aside and feinted a stab to Lang's right before slashing at Lang's left.

The chair was too heavy to use as a weapon. Stepping back, Lang simultaneously slammed it against the floor. As he had hoped, the legs broke free. Still watching Witherspoon, he scooped one up. Now he at least had a club.

Witherspoon, still pacing, snorted. "A piece of wood won't save you."

The chair leg had snapped off, leaving a sharp point where it had been attached. Lang jabbed. "Like the song says, Witherspoon, 'a little less talk and a lot more action.' Much as you'd like to, you can't talk me to death."

Lang knew his best chance lay in either stalling until help arrived or forcing Witherspoon to commit himself. A broken chair leg was better than no weapon, but not by much.

Lang's eyes fastened onto those of his antagonist. He was aware that even the most experienced knife fighter must at least glance in the direction of attack.

Thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Lang blocked each jab with solid wood, retreating a step with each move. He felt the wall at his back, a fact Witherspoon must have noted, judging by the victorious smile on his face.

But the man had given himself away. His eyes shifted quickly to the opposite side before he feigned an attack. This time Lang was ready. Witherspoon's eyes darted to Lang's right as he jabbed futilely to the left. When he moved right, arm extended for what he anticipated would be the kill, Lang spun aside, bringing the chair leg crashing down across Witherspoon's wrist, smashing the ulna.

Witherspoon howled as the knife spun like a sparkling comet across the room. He bent over, cradling the shattered bones of his wrist. Lang was tempted to swing the chair leg down on the man's head. Too risky. Such blows reliably rendered only film villains unconscious. In real life the skull was frequently too thick to allow more than temporarily dazing an opponent.

That was one of the reasons the Agency had taught the seven kill spots on the human body.

Lang jabbed upward, stabbing the wooden point into the area just below the chin. Witherspoon's head snapped head back with sufficient force that Lang could hear the vertebrae snap.

Witherspoon dropped lifelessly to the floor.

"What a sodding mess!"

Whirling, Lang faced the source of the voice as he raised the chair leg for another blow.

Jacob stood in the doorway, surveying the carnage inside. "Put that silly stick down and come outside."

Lang grinned. "Remind me not to let you near any weapon I own. What would have happened if it had been me instead of Zwelk pulling that trigger?"