Greg Bear - Mariposa

The flanking pair assumed combat stance to test his revolve. They were going to do this the old-fashioned way and engage in hand-to-hand.

That was not his plan. He had neither the desire nor the patience.

Fouad came in spinning the poleax, dropping to one knee and swinging in a wide arc. The double-edged ax cut through the first man's boot and ankle and nearly severed his leg.

From his knee, Fouad lifted and thrust the ax blade past the man's throat, then pulled it back with a reverse cut. The man managed a breathy gurgle before he died.

The second guard fell over the body trying get out of the way. He did not fall fast enough to miss another series of thrusts and cuts-first from the side, incapacitating his knife hand, followed by a double-handed downswing splitting his skull.

Fouad jerked out the ax.

He looked up and sucked in smoky air.

Price and the Saudi prince were making a desperate dash for the garage. Their pace was no longer stately, privileged, or royal-they were in terror for their lives.

The last two guards, Americans attached to Price, moved in, brandishing their poleaxes like novices. Born of a gun culture, no doubt-in love with loud noises and gunpowder and not at all happy with blades.

Fouad was up again, jabbing and feinting.

The three formed a circle, poleaxes inward, almost tip to tip. The man on his right stepped forward and made his own jab, long and off-balance.

Fouad again leaped aside and brought his ax down. The first American's gripping hand flew off and his poleax dropped to the dirt and double-bounced, singing.

Fouad speared his upper leg, then sliced again as the guard dropped and rolled-his roll slowing and eyes glazing, lips turning blue, as he bled out from his femoral artery.

The second American leaped toward Fouad, eyes wild. This man handled his weapon better, keeping Fouad back with balanced, measured thrusts-then tried to hook his leg with the ax.

Fouad jumped left and brought his ax down. The man parried with an outward blow, hooked Fouad's shaft, twisted it, then grabbed and pulled it toward him until Fouad let go. This close, the poleax was of no use. Fouad seized the man's arm before he could again double-grip his weapon.

With a push of the guard's elbow Fouad shoved in face-to-face, caught the sweat slinging from the man's forehead-tasted its salt in his mouth-and used his two-inch height advantage to straighten, lift, and hard-jerk the arm up and sideways.

Not enough to break it, but Fouad's foot went behind him and the man tripped and landed on his back.

Fouad spun him on the ground and as he struggled, retrieved one of the crossed poleaxes and neatly removed his head.

A moment and no more to catch his breath.

The killing made him angrier and angrier, that he had to do such things because men were filled with arrogant greed, because some wished to rule with neither the wit nor the self-knowledge to see their inadequacies-and how many of their people would die.

Fouad followed the fleeing pair, poleax held before him, pacing himself: one-eyed, lip split wide, face swollen and smudged and dripping blood, an awful ifrit in pursuit.

He had to plan his moves carefully, not to be lost in fight-heat and regret it later.

They should not get away to regroup their wealth and power and try this again.

Killing them… perhaps necessary.

If there was no alternative.

The Smoky

The Torq-Vee took Rebecca's team down a short road to the ranch complex.

Forester pulled up in front of the main house. Staff dressed in white skirts and uniforms, and a few older men in dirty, torn suits, wandered down the steps and across a section of knee-high prairie grass, all half blind from smoke.

"Little people and a few humps, I think," Forester said.

"Humps?"

"Perps. Bad guys."

"Right. Forget them. Let's check out the ballroom," Rebecca said, consulting the map in her gogs.

She pointed and Forester turned the Torq-Vee about, making a counterclockwise circle.

"Along the way," she said, "We need to check out the bungalows and see if they have any of our people tied up or stashed."

Forester coasted the Torq-Vee along the guest roundabout. Three of the team worked in unison to search each of the bungalows. The three came back at the end of the circuit, shook their heads, and climbed aboard.

"Place is a mess," one said. "Two old dudes dead in their bathrooms. Looks like their heads exploded. What's that-brain chips or something?"

"Could be implants to control palsy. God forgive them," Forester said.

"I think one of them might be a congressman or something. He looked familiar."

"There's a garage up ahead," Rebecca said. "Could have vintage vehicles that still run."

"My thinking exactly," Forester said.

"Aston Martin! Ferrari! Jaguar XKE!" the youngest of the team enthused. "Spoils of war?"

"You wish," Forester said. "We can't afford the gas."

"For a day, I could."

To Rebecca, they all seemed little more than boys.

Rebecca watched the big garage grow close. Again, three of the team prepared to leap out and do reconnaissance.

"Squad on our right, waving," Forester said. "They seem to think we're with them."

"Colonel Sir's Haitians," the youngest guessed.

"Do we confront and subdue?" Forester asked.

"No," Rebecca said. "Go right, to the other end of the garage. I'll go in with you."

"Yes, ma'am," Forester said.

The wooden doors hung open, electronic locks sprung.

They climbed out of the Torq-Vee, leaving the youngest-against his wishes-to guard their ride.

Inside, three aisles passed between what might have been a truly beautiful selection of antique cars and trucks-but the lights were out and they saw little more than glimmers in deep shadow. Rebecca walked halfway down the garage's length, listening while the team ran down the aisles, then circled back.

"No gaps in the vintage parade, nothing obviously missing," Forester reported.

She gestured for a return to the Torq-Vee.

Just as she was about to shut the door, she glanced back and saw a woman standing in the dark at the far end, a diminutive, slender figure in white carrying a single candle. Three young children clutched her long dress. Rebecca thought there might two more farther back, standing in a doorway-outlined in faintly glowing pink.

She closed her eyes for a moment and the effect went away.

"You took my husband!" the woman shouted down the length of the building. "That awful man grabbed him from right in front of us! Where is he?"

The Haitians chose that moment to enter from the far end. They surrounded the woman and her children, carrying their own candles and boldly, loudly brandishing rifles and pistols.

All of them looked terrified, lost, desperate.

Rebecca let the door swing shut and climbed back into the Torq-Vee.

"Mrs. Price, I think," she said to Forester. "No sign of our people. One more circuit-avoid crowds. Then back to the airport."

JPB

Across the taxiway, two smudged, bloody figures limped through a hellish nightmare of crackling, burning luxury jets, crashed or rolled maintenance carts, abandoned fuel trucks-mercifully intact-and the last confused, wandering minions of Axel Price's empire.

These remaining few had used whatever they could find to cut out the source of their pain. All trailed blood and wove random tracks over the tarmac, like rabbits and deer after a brush fire. They presented no menace.

As if homing toward each other-recognizing friend amid dazed foes-the two men trekked across the main runway, William waving Fouad on, Fouad waving in turn, until they met under the orange-smudged sun.