Джон Болл - The First Team

The colonel could not protest because Barlov was obviously doing his duty, but he was further annoyed. He looked at the prisoner and made a point for Bariev’s benefit. “If I chose to kill you with my bare hands, you might last as long as thirty seconds,” he said. “But I have no time to amuse myself in this way. You work for the agent Hewlitt!”

Frank said nothing.

Rostovitch waited just long enough to determine that no answer was coming, then he came suddenly forward and started a powerful, openhanded smash against the side of Frank’s face. As he whipped his arm down, Frank without warning kicked him violently in the shin. The impact almost knocked Rostovitch off his feet and caused his own blow to miss. Barlov leaped forward, but the colonel waved him away.

One more time Rostovitch tried to thrust down the boiling acid of frustration and recover his composure. He forced his voice into something approaching normal speech. “Why do you challenge me?” he asked.

“Because you called me a nigger, you horse’s ass, and because you ain’t nearly as good as you think you are.”

Rostovitch’s rage descended to an icy calm; he realized that he had nearly been goaded into forgetting himself, and his whole lower leg burned with pain. He was used to pain, but it had not lost its power to annoy him. Barlov remained silent and motionless, ready to do whatever he was directed. Rostovitch knew that he could have the man before him dead in another fifteen seconds, but that would not reveal any information. Worse, Barlov would not forget what he had seen and heard. “This man has been searched?” he asked, attempting to make it sound casual.

Barlov was stung. “Thoroughly. He would not have been permitted in your presence otherwise.”

There was another hidden barb in that, although the answer had been completely respectful. Rostovitch let his fingertips feel the contour of the knife that was concealed against his leg. “Leave us,” he said to Barlov in English. “Attend to your men. You will return when I call you.”

Barlov looked at him and knew that he meant exactly what he said. He allowed the slightest suspicion of a satisfied smile to touch the corners of his mouth. Rostovitch noted it and approved; it was a testimonial which told him that his image was intact.

When they were alone Rostovitch looked at Frank for several seconds. “I give you one last chance to save your life,” he lied. “If you tell me enough, fast enough, I may relent. I am not Zalinsky, he is in the hospital. I am Rostovitch!”

“Now ain’t that a great big surprise,” Frank said, and calmly stood up.

The colonel began slowly to walk around him, measuring him with his eyes. When he had finished, the slight exercise had eased the biting pain in his leg and put his mind back into proper focus once more. “You have perhaps heard of me,” he said with deceptive mildness.

Frank looked at the skull-like face and casually surveyed the total picture that the formidable colonel made. “You ain’t much,” he said.

Rostovitch struck like lightning; his left arm shot out aimed directly, with two fingers extended, at Frank’s eyes. Instinctively Frank drew back, then Rostovitch’s hammerlike right fist slammed into his unprotected abdomen.

Frank’s body knifed over from the blow, for a moment he was bent half double. With his hand held edgewise and open, Rostovitch swung down with concentrated force toward the back of

Frank’s neck. The blow landed, but on the top of the skull and well before it had gained its maximum power; despite the sudden shock of pain and loss of wind, Frank was already jerking himself upright, his right arm bent with his hand almost resting on the top of his own shoulder. Using the power of his torso and his leg muscles for a maximum effort, he smashed the top of his elbow against the underside of Rostovitch’s jaw. He felt a renewed stab of pain as the blow hit; he saw Rostovitch’s head snap back, but the jawbone had not broken. Any ordinary man would have been knocked senseless with a shot like that.

The colonel fell back one step, shook himself, and smiled with the fixed expression of a carved mask. Then he kicked.

He did not telegraph it, but he was too far back for any other attack and Frank had anticipated him. He spun sideways, letting the kick hit the side of his hip and deflect; then with his own left foot he kicked, with limited power but great speed, against the back of Rostovitch’s left knee, unlocking the joint.

Rostovitch fell, but when Frank lunged after him he rolled backwards in a complete circle, his head sidewise against his shoulder, and came back up onto his feet again. Frank was still down; Rostovitch aimed a cool and driving kick against his left shoulder and sank it fully home.

Frank flipped onto his back, turned himself with astonishing speed, and aimed his feet toward his opponent. Then he too swung over backward, favoring his shoulder, and gained his own feet.

“A cabdriver,” Rostovitch spat out, almost under his breath. “A cabdriver! You expect me to believe that?”

“You wanna go somewhere?” Frank asked. He stood still, working the muscles of his left shoulder, loosening them and easing the strain of the hard kick he had taken.

Rostovitch attacked again; he seized Frank’s left wrist with both of his hands, lifted it up, and then almost whipped it out of its socket. As he snapped downward Frank dropped with the motion; bent over he spun halfway around to the left and grabbed one of Rostovitch’s own wrists with his free hand. Jerking upward he thrust his injured shoulder into Rostovitch’s armpit. Shooting both of his own arms out he forced the colonel to extend his own arm — the leverage was against Rostovitch then and despite his strength and all of his training, he could not help himself. He knew that he was trapped in the Judo throw Seoi-nage, but once the shouldri was in his armpit, all he could do defensively was to attempt to throw his whole weight backward and pull his opponent oil' balance.

He had only a fraction of a second in which to do that; before he could drop his body Frank straightened his legs, lifting him off the ground, then bent forward rapidly with all of the power his body could command. Despite his more than two hundred pounds of hard, muscular weight, Rostovitch was thrown over Frank’s head and slammed hard onto the floor flat on his back.

He had barely landed when Frank followed up with a driving stomp into the solar plexus, enough to force the wind from Rosto-vitch’s body and to render him momentarily helpless.

Despite the fact that there was almost no breath left in his body, Rostovitch attempted to fight back. With intense determination he managed to roll over, then attempted to thrust himself against Frank’s legs. He managed, and bit into the flesh until the blood flowed freely. Frank broke it, but only by literally tearing himself away. He was breathing heavily now, fighting dizziness as well as intense pain. But he retained his balance and when Rostovitch attempted to get up, he kicked once more and caught him with partial success in the groin.

That doubled Rostovitch up once more. Frank waited, grateful for the opportunity to gulp air and to gather his remaining resources. He was an extraordinarily powerful man, but in Rostovitch he had met an enemy of almost inhuman toughness. He looked, and saw the small, almost concealed hand gun that Rostovitch had had hidden. He leapt forward, hands outstretched, and locked them around the weapon. Then it became a test of strength and Rostovitch was like steel. They wrestled on the floor, without science or skill, until Frank felt the point of Rostovitch’s elbow thrusting into the base of his throat. That meant death and he knew it; in one supreme effort he rolled himself sideways, bending the hand backward against the gun until he felt the wrist snap. Then, his strength all but spent, he hammered his forearm across Rostovitch’s throat.