James Patterson - Toys

“Why do they call you Mehkween? ” I asked next, half shouting over the swirling wind that was blowing down like a twister from the frozen north.

“It’s Megwin,” she answered. “That’s what my parents originally named me, and that’s how some resistance people know me. Lucy’s just for the straight world. You can call me Lucy.”

“Thanks much, Mehkween.”

I let it go at that; it wasn’t really much of a surprise compared to everything else that had happened. It turned out that Lucy/Megwin had worked with Tazh Khan and his men for years. Despite their savage appearance, they had not only modern weapons but modern communications technology-and this was the rendezvous she’d arranged for while we were in the plane.

Now the Mongols were taking us to a place where we’d get safe transport across Russia-to England, which, according to Lucy, remained quite civilized. As did France, Germany, Italy, Scandinavia.

There was another reason besides the strong winds that made talking difficult. Jouncing along on the ponies that they’d provided had my teeth hopelessly clacking together. Horseback riding had not been included in Agent of Change training; I’d never even been near a horse before.

I found out fast that it wasn’t nearly as easy as these Mongol warriors made it look. Sitting astride the bony little beast was like getting kicked squarely in the ass with every single step. It didn’t help that I was close to a foot taller than everybody except Lucy.

It didn’t help, either, that while the Mongols adored Lucy/Megwin, they didn’t seem to like me one bit-especially Tazh Khan. They didn’t try to hide their mockery of my clumsy horsemanship. Perhaps to drive the point home, one of them would occasionally gallop away from the group to chase one of the large hares that popped up out of the ground and dashed away. In a blur of erratic, side-blitzing speed, the pony would hunt it down while the rider leaned out parallel to the ground with his bow and arrow and skewered it.

Hitting a target like that was roughly like shooting a snowflake in a blizzard. But they never seemed to miss.

“Ey!” Tazh Khan said, trotting up beside me. He might have been thirty years old, or sixty, and looked like he was made completely of leather and bone, like he had existed forever.

“Ey!” he repeated and rubbed his belly, then jerked his thumb toward his mouth-apparently asking if I was hungry.

I waited warily. I was hungry, but I had a hard enough time with ordinary human food and seriously doubted that whatever this barbarian horde ate was any improvement on, say, the human frankfurter.

A long knife suddenly appeared in his hand, its edge worn thin, almost to invisibility, by what had to have been thousands of honings.

He leaned forward to whisper in his mount’s ear, gave it a couple of soothing pats, then touched the blade to one of the pulsing veins that ran along its neck. Hell- he’d just cut his own horse!

As blood welled out, Tazh Khan clasped his mouth over the open cut and sucked in a long, leisurely drink.

The pony never even flinched. Its vein was crisscrossed with neat scars, I now saw. These horses weren’t just transportation, they were movable snack bars.

When he finished, he smeared some kind of ointment around the nicked flap of the animal’s skin and closed the wound. Quite the humanitarian, I was thinking.

Then he surprised me with an offer of his knife.

I did nothing but shake my head.

Tazh Khan spat contemptuously. Then he reined away from me and gave his knife to Lucy.

She flashed me a grin that was as fierce as the men’s-then, without hesitation, she helped herself to a quaff of blood from the neck of her own mount.

What a girl.

A ripple of cruel laughter broke from the riders, along with a chain of jeering comments, obviously at my expense. It grated worse than the jolting I was receiving from the pony. My patience was wearing as thin as the razor-sharp edge of Tazh Khan’s knife.

“What are they saying?” I asked Lucy, who now rode beside me, possibly to keep an eye on me. “Translate for me, please.”

“Let’s just say-in the kindest way-that you remind them of the scared rabbits they hunt.” She seemed somewhat sympathetic, but mostly amused herself. That set me off even more.

“All right,” I said. “Then I’m the rabbit. Keep your eye on this rabbit!”

I swung my leg over the pony’s back and slid down to the ground. What a relief it was to have solid earth under my feet again.

Lucy’s face turned puzzled, as well as concerned. “What are you doing, Hays? Don’t get yourself trampled now.”

“Tell them to hunt me,” I said. “All of them at once. For real. No holding back. Catch me if they can!”

Her eyes widened and actually showed some fear. “Hays, no. They don’t mean it personally-it’s a cultural thing.”

But I cut her short with an upraised palm. “Cultural thing, my ass-it’s a guy thing. They’re questioning my… you know…”

Reluctantly, she spoke a few rushed sentences to the nomadic band, now watching me curiously. When she finished, their laughter chorused again, this time even louder and harsher. Tazh Khan answered her back in his piggish language.

“He says you must be smarter than he thought,” Lucy translated, “to take refuge in the knowledge that their tribal law forbids them from killing a crazy man.”

I smiled tightly. “Tell him that if any of them can hit me, then I won’t take away their cute little bows and arrows and break them over my knee.”

Lucy raised her eyes heavenward, but she swung back around to them and delivered the challenge.

That really pissed them off.

As their laughter turned to brutish scowls, I bounced around in a few goofy bunny hops, waggling my fingers above my head like ears.

Then I took off-moving extremely fast in long leaps but staying low to the ground.

In the blink of an eye, I had a thundering herd of agile horses and murder-bent wild men hot on my little, cotton bunny tail.

The first several riders came in swiftly and close to the ground, and so did their arrows, registering on my vision as dark particles that instantaneously grew in length as they approached.

I danced about a foot or so above them, letting them whir past under my feet.

The Mongol horsemen slowed to a trot and dropped their bows in utter amazement-but also chagrin.

Bunny Rabbit, one; Mongolians, zip.

The rest of the band tried a different tack, galloping around me in a half circle and firing their arrows all at once in a pattern-a grid several feet high and wide, with the shots spaced carefully inside it. If their plan worked, I would look like a frog that crash-landed into a thornbush.

This time I leaped straight up into a somersault, twisting upside down and plucking a few of the arrows out of the air as they shot underneath me. Coming down, I hurled them back, whistling the darts right past the horsemen’s ears.

With exclamations of despair, they tossed their bows onto the refuse pile already started by their comrades. I’d nearly won them all over.

Now only one rider was left facing me: Tazh Khan himself.

For a few long seconds, we locked gazes. Then, without haste, he nocked an arrow, took careful aim, and unleashed it straight at my throat.

I shifted aside just enough to take it in the hollow of my left shoulder. It punched clear through, protruding out my back.

It also hurt like a sonofabitch. Lord, it stung.

I sagged to my knees as Lucy came running up and put her arm around me. “Oh, Hays, you fool. You complete idiot.”