Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Again, it half-worked, and the man dropped the Kalashnikov, struggling to free his arm as she brought him off the ground, twisting over her in the air, his hand dragging along her neck, pulling her hair, trying to take her down with him. Chace fell into him onto the ground, punched once at his throat, caught the mass of muscle at his shoulder instead. She felt her hair tearing as he pulled her down toward him, his mouth opening, trying to bite her face, and Chace snapped her forehead into his nose, felt the cartilage shatter and melt, and he roared and pounded at her back and side with his free hand, kicking at the earth, rolling them until she was on her back and he was pinning her with his weight.

It was impossible to breathe, agony to breathe, and Chace felt his hand hot on her throat, and something else digging into her skin above her right hip. She reached for it, found the hilt of her knife, and her vision was swimming, and he was over her, and his other hand left her hair, and the world cracked, jumped, as if badly spliced, and she felt wet heat spreading from her nose as he punched her face a second time, then brought that hand to join the first, squeezing the life out of her.

She stabbed him then, felt the blade slide over bone, then sink deep into his side, and the man howled, loud enough that she heard it through the roar of the surf crashing in her ears. Chace yanked the blade toward her, keeping it inside him, with everything she had, feeling it slide through hollow insides, and then she forced it back, in the opposite direction, turning the hilt. His grip on her faltered, and his eyes began to empty, and she turned the blade as if working the throttle of Kittering's motorcycle, ran it down, and felt the eruption of hot blood gushing over her hand.

His grip slipped, and he pitched forward, resting atop her, and she heard his death rattle in her ear, felt it rustle through her hair.

Chace saw the stars above her blurring, felt her whole body shaking.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt much more to be alive.

Saudi Arabia-Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan 22 September 0326 Local (GMT+3.00)

She was thinking of a time when she and Wallace had broken into a liquor store because all the pubs in Bath had closed, and they were drunk and wanted something to drink. They'd driven in his Triumph out into the middle of a field and gotten pissed out of their minds, drinking toasts to the memory of Minders past, men with names like Ed Kittering and Brian Butler. They'd been sick drunk and missed work the next day, and Crocker had torn into them for being stupid and foolish, and for, worst of all, being caught on surveillance camera robbing a liquor store in Bath.

Matteen Agha was standing over her, speaking. It took her a few seconds to remember who he was, and even longer to understand what he was asking, but try as she might, she couldn't let go of the knife. He had to pry her fingers away from the hilt before he could topple the dead man from astride her. Then he reached down and took her arms and pulled her to her feet.

"You have exfil, right?" he asked. "You have a pickup?"

Chace couldn't understand him. She knew so many languages, and she couldn't understand what he was saying.

"Where is the pickup?" Matteen insisted. "We need to go."

"Parlez-vous francais?" she asked, and it was barely audible, and the pain it caused her throat was as acute as every other in her body and heart.

Matteen helped her sit, propping her against the wadi wall.

"Don't move," he said. "Don't move, don't do anything. I'll be right back."

"Je ne comprend pas," Chace croaked.

Matteen went off, back down the mouth of the wadi.

Chace sat still for most of a minute, then saw her P90 resting in the dirt. She needed two tries to get to her feet, then staggered to the weapon and nearly fell over again when she picked it up. Her fingers fumbled at the flap of her thigh pocket, and it took most of another minute to get out the remaining magazine and replace the empty in the gun.

She heard an engine start, echoing through the wadi.

She pulled herself back up the wadi wall and collapsed again, this time beside Wallace.

She heard the sound of wheels crunching earth, the slow approach of the vehicle beneath her, the headlights splashing fresh illumination. When the light hit Tom, his skin looked as pale as the surface of the moon, his eyes as cold.

A car door opened.

"I have to go now," Chace said to Wallace. "I have to go."

She raised her head and put her lips to his cheek, then pushed herself back along the ground, sliding back down to the wadi floor. She turned, saw Matteen standing beside the open driver's door, and Chace made her way numbly around to the passenger's side, climbed into the seat. Matteen came around and closed her door, then went back to take his place behind the wheel.

Chace fumbled out the GPS unit from her pocket, switched it on, and was amazed that it still worked.

She gave Matteen the bearing, and the car started, and she closed her eyes so that she wouldn't have to look at what she was leaving behind.

Israel-Tel Aviv, the Hilton Tel Aviv, Room 2303 24 September 0831 Local (GMT+3.00)

The SUV had saved them, allowed them to make the first pickup on the twenty-third, at twenty-two hundred hours. The bird had appeared out of nowhere, hugging the Jordanian terrain, set down just long enough for Chace to pull her battered and abused self into the back, Matteen following. The gunner in the back had nothing to say to them as they took off again, and when they set down at the base north of Elat, Landau was waiting.

Chace was taken to the base infirmary, where a brusque doctor gave her an efficient and not unkind examination, including eighteen stitches along her scalp, where the first rifle blow had torn away a flap of skin. He told her that she was lucky her skull hadn't caved in, and she just looked at him, not feeling lucky about anything much at all. He gave her a shot for the pain, and she was nodding off when Landau returned with two of the heavies she recognized from the safehouse. He told them to take her back to Tel Aviv, and they brought her to another helicopter, and there was another ride, a short one, and she nodded off again while they were in the air, and a third time after they put her in the car.

She honestly had no memory of how she'd ended up in the Tel Aviv Hilton. • She awoke in pain, disoriented, and it took her several moments to piece together where she was and how she might have come to be there. When she got out of bed and pulled herself to the bathroom, she saw a plastic shopping bag resting on the closed toilet seat. Inside were clothes, presumably ones that would fit her.

She took a shower and didn't much feel it, even when she made it hot, even when she made it cold.

She dried off and dressed, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. • Landau and Borovsky came to see her for debriefing at nine, and she saw no reason not to tell them everything that had happened, so she did. They listened closely, their faces betraying nothing.

When she was finished, Borovsky asked how she was feeling.

"Dead," she said.

"That will pass," he told her, and laid a pack of Silk Cut on the desk, then excused himself and left the room, leaving Landau behind.

"Where's Matteen?"

"Already gone," Landau said. "CIA was waiting to scoop him up the moment we left the base."

"So he was for real?"

"Apparently. I didn't ask, they wouldn't say anyway, we go on what we know at any given moment, yes?"

Chace nodded, staring out the window at the Mediterranean.

"You should be getting a call shortly," Landau said, rising.

"All right."

"My advice, take some time off. Take some rest."