Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"You see this, John? The great liberator has arrived. You really think he can help you? That it makes one iota of difference to your fate?"

"Leave him out of this," I snapped. "Me and you, Cain. If you've got what it takes."

Cain smiled as if he were hiding a great secret. "Oh, I've got what it takes. Believe me. But what about you? Up in Washington I heard your name whispered. Like you're some sort of silent killing machine that even presidents are afraid of. Me, I think it was all hyperbole. I don't think you're anywhere near as good as they say you are. Me, on the other hand, well, just look around. I reckon the proof's in the pudding. Just take a look at what I did to our mutual buddy John Telfer."

John made a noise, a hiss of anguish. I lunged forward, cutting at Cain's torso in a bottom-to-top oblique slash. Cain skipped away laughing. My knife edge had missed by a mile. But that was okay. I'd only cut to get Cain to move, allowing me to leap through the space he'd left and position myself before John. Realizing his mistake, Cain shook his head. Made a tut-tut noise.

Now it was my turn to be the facetious one. I wiggled the?ngers of my left hand at him, beckoning him to me. "Come on, Cain."

Cain did come on. He dropped low, thrusting at my abdomen. As I shifted to block his knife, he twisted to one side. He slashed in an S, bringing the blade perilously close to my throat, a centimeter shy of my carotid artery. Only I was also ducking and my return stab forced him back on his heels. I followed him, jabbing at his throat, at his groin, back to the throat. Cain shouted in forced humor. Slashed back at me. I struck at his knife blade with my KA-BAR and sparks danced.

I thrust my left foot into his gut. Cain absorbed most of the kick- but not all. He went into a wall, scattering bones across the?oor. Immediately he spun, struck at me. It was all I could do to save my throat, at the expense of a deep cut across the back of my left hand. I? flnched, and Cain saw that as a weakness. He came at me again. To show him I was no weakling, I jabbed my blade into his thigh. I'd have preferred to rip out his femoral artery, but the meat was as good a reminder of my potency as anything was. Cain didn't like it. He jumped back, slapping his free hand over the wound.

He stood there, breathing deeply through his nose as he slowly lifted the blood-smeared hand before us.

I nodded at him. There you go, you son of a bitch. I repositioned myself so that I guarded John from his blade. Inclined my head, inviting him in.

Cain postured. He did an adjustment with his feet reminiscent of a young Cassius Clay-a show of bravado to indicate that the wound wouldn't slow him down any. I smiled knowingly. Bravado was the tool of a frightened man.

"What's wrong, Cain? Not so sure of yourself anymore? It's one thing cutting up helpless people. What's it like to have your victim turn on you?"

"Fun."

"I bet." I took a slow step forward. "Bet it isn't as much fun as when you murdered your wife and kids." Cain stiffened slightly. "Or when you killed your brother, huh?" "Leave my brother out of this," Cain said. I gained another half step on him. "What was it like, Cain?

Murdering those that loved you? Was it a thrill? Some sort of sick fantasy come to life?"

Cain growled. My taunting was having the desired effect. For one, my words were angering him. An angry man doesn't reason. And when reason goes, so does training. And my speaking was forcing him to consider the actual words. Even if his response was only to swear, his brain was engaged as he deliberated his answer. While he was measuring those words, he wasn't capable of planning his next attack. It was a lesson I learned many years ago. Ask a question of your enemy. As he answers, hit him.

"Did you watch them burn, Cain?"

"Yes," he replied. "Watched them burn like torches."

"Bit of a waste, though. Bet you wish you'd brought them here, eh? What a waste of good bones."

Cain paused. I could see that there was regret behind the scowl. He opened his mouth. I didn't wait for his response. I leaped at him.

It should have ended then. My knife should have found his throat. He should have fallen to his knees gripping his wound, attempting to halt the?ow. But as I'd always been cautioned, should-haves and could-haves have nothing to do with the reality of blood and snot combat.

Even as I stabbed at Cain's throat, he was already lifting a hand. Instead of the soft tissue of his throat, I found a sinewy forearm. All right, I wounded him sorely. If he didn't staunch the blood loss, then he would ultimately weaken and die. But he was still in the?ght. And unfortunately, my KA-BAR was wedged in muscle and bone. And Cain's blade was still free.

You've undoubtedly heard that old story about how at the moment of death your entire life flashes before your eyes. It's not true. Well, not for me it wasn't. I guess my life had been way too eventful for that. Not many people get the luxury of playing out a billion reminders before sinking into oblivion, not when death comes in an instant. Instead of the whole panoply of incidents from an event-?lled thirty-nine years, only two things?ashed through my mind. First, the face of my ex-wife, Diane. It wasn't a genuine image, but one my mind conjured of future events. She was standing at my grave, but she wasn't grieving. She wore a face of disgust, even anger. As if she'd always known that this was how it was going to end.

Second-and equally poignant-an image from only minutes before. John beseeching me, "Don't leave me."

On re?ection, those two images whorled through my mind in less than a heartbeat, so I suppose the important facets of my life could've been played out within seconds. But I didn't have the luxury of seconds. If I was to live at all, I had to act now.

I loosed the hilt of my KA-BAR. It was pointless attempting to wrench it free. While I tried, Cain could have cut enough of my hide to fashion himself a new pair of boots. Instead, I stabbed my?ngers at his eyes. It didn't stop his knife from parting?esh and grating on bone, but it was enough to de?ect it from my heart. It also forced us apart. It was a slow release, and I swear that I could feel every cold inch of steel as it sucked free of my chest. Cain went backward, eyes screwed tight as he tried to?ght the response of tears invading his senses. I went to one knee, clutching at my chest.

Cain backed to the wall again, his shoulders brushing more bones on the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes, cursing me in short guttural snatches of sound. I remained kneeling, almost overwhelmed by the agony. His knife hadn't killed me, but at that moment I wasn't sure that the pain wouldn't?nish the task for him.

Ignoring the agony, I rose up to see where he was, and already Cain was coming for me. He was half blinded, but he didn't need eyes to know I was at his mercy. He was armed. I wasn't. I was severely wounded. It would be a matter of seconds to?nish the job.

But would-be is a phrase that sits alongside should-haves and could-haves in combat. And the difference between Cain and me was that only I understood that at that moment. He hadn't seen Rink step into the doorway behind him. Rink was bleeding from his belly. He had a gash across his chin, another across his arm. His face was plastered with gore from another wound across his forehead. But life seethed in his furnace-hot gaze.

Cain faltered. Something in my face must have alerted him. He stumbled to a halt. Swung around to face Rink.

"Drop the knife," Rink roared as he lifted a gun and aimed it at Cain's face.

Cain laughed. "You found my gun? I wondered where I dropped it."

"Drop the knife, Cain," Rink said again. He stepped closer, the gun trained between Cain's eyes.

"Sorry. Can't do it."