Warren Murphy: Bamboo Dragon

"What is?"

"Goddamned philosophy." She grimaced, fighting with the pain. "I don't suppose you've got a neat trick up your sleeve for this?"

"'Fraid not," he said.

"I didn't think so. Shit! Don't leave me like this, Renton."

"No."

She forced a smile in spite of everything. "I guess this means you win."

"Two different games," he said. "I won't be getting rich and fat, if it's a consolation."

"Screw your consolation," Audrey hissed. "Somebody ought to make a dollar off this deal."

"I have a feeling someone will."

"Not Beijing, though."

He shook his head. "Not this time."

"Just as well. You need five hundred thousand dollars, Renton?"

Remo didn't have to think about it. "No," he said.

"You sure? I'll tell you where it is, how you can get it, if you promise—"

"Never mind," he interrupted her. "It's on the house. Just close your eyes now."

Audrey Moreland did as she was told, and Remo finished it, a light stroke to the temple, blotting out her pain, replacing it with darkness.

Remo hoped that she was warm.

Across the courtyard, primal sounds of pain and fury snapped him out of it. He rose and turned back toward the huge combatants, saw them lurching in a grim ballet of death.

And Remo left the newly dead blonde behind him as he went to join Chiun.

It was the greatest battle of the century, of any century, thought Stockwell. You could keep Jurassic Park, with all its clever animation and effects. The scene in front of him was real, no miniatures, stage blood, blue screens or stop-motion photography involved.

So real that he could smell it. The metallic scent of blood was overwhelming; some of it had even spattered Stockwell's face, run down his cheeks and neck into the open collar of his shirt. A musky odor from the great ceratosaurus, doubtless similar to odors certain snakes produced when caught or taken by surprise. The elephant had urinated sometime in the early moments of the fight, and the ammonia smell was strong enough to open up a dead man's sinuses.

It was illusory, thought Stockwell, but he could have sworn he felt the earth tilt underneath his feet. No man on earth had ever witnessed anything like this before—except, perhaps, some member of the local tribe—and he, Professor Safford Stockwell, would be first to share the story with the outside world.

Then it struck him that their gear—the cameras, everything—had been stripped from them by the natives when they reached the city. Christ, had it been only hours earlier? He didn't have a single photograph or videocassette to document what he was seeing, nothing that would prove his case once they escaped.

If they escaped.

There would be witnesses, of course. Poor Chalmers was a write-off, but he still had Sibu Sandakan and the amazing Dr. Renton Ward.

And Audrey. Where in God's name had she gotten to this time?

There was no time to search for her just now. He was preoccupied to the exclusion of all else with the display of sheer brute force in front of him. Each move of the ceratosaurus felt like poetry, his dusty textbooks with their sketches come to life upon command.

He saw the elephant lunge forward, jabbing with its tusks, but the ceratosaurus sidestepped, bobbed its head and clamped down on its adversary's back with jaws agape. Blood fountained from the new wounds, streaking dusty hide and pooling on the ground, producing rust-colored mud as it was trampled under massive feet.

The elephant was lurching, bucking almost like a horse, to shake its ancient foe. The reptile lost its grip, but kept a ragged hunk of flesh clenched in its jaws as it fell over sideways, sprawling in the dirt. Before it sprang erect once more, the elephant closed in and hooked the carnivore with one long tusk, a piercing wound beneath its left arm, through the ribs.

Ceratosaurus shrieked in pain and rage, leaped backward, leaving bloodstains on the elephant's right tusk. Instead of hesitating, though, it circled to the left, then doubled back, the change-up smooth enough to be a practiced move. The elephant was forced to follow, facing toward its enemy, but dizziness and steady loss of blood combined to make its steps unsteady, tremulous.

The reptile saw its opening, rushed in and dodged the flashing tusks to clamp its jaws behind the elephant's great skull. Ceratosaurus gave a stiff shake of its head, teeth grinding into flesh and bone, blood streaming, and the elephant began to squeal, a weird, almost unearthly sound. Its trunk thrashed helplessly as it dug in with all four feet, but weight and bulk alone were not enough to save it. With its enemy beyond the reach of either tusk, the elephant could only lurch from side to side and try to pull away.

Too late.

The snap of separating vertebrae was loud enough that Stockwell had no trouble hearing it above the other noises of the two combatants. Instantly, it was as if someone had punctured an immense balloon, as the elephant collapsed, its tree-trunk legs giving way. It landed belly down, with the ceratosaurus still on top, still clinging to its neck, but in another moment, even a diminutive reptile brain could tell the fight was over.

Grudgingly, the dinosaur released its grip and tottered backward, favoring its injured side. The puncture wound was bleeding freely, with no way to determine from a distance whether it was mortal. It was obviously painful, though, since the Jurassic predator didn't take time to sample so much as a mouthful from its latest kill.

In fact, as Stockwell watched, the ceratosaurus turned back toward the gates and the darkness of the rain forest outside the city walls. It was escaping! In a few more seconds, it would be beyond his reach forever!

Safford Stockwell moved like someone caught up in a dream. He scarcely realized that he was stepping forward, rushing toward the giant prehistoric reptile as it turned away from him. He felt hands clutching at his sleeve and threw them off, determined. If he could not photograph the reptile, could not cage a specimen, the very least that he could do was touch it, for his own sake.

Now!

He reached out for the flicking tail and saw it coming back to meet him. The ceratosaurus never saw him—or if so, it paid no more attention to him than a grizzly bear might pay a gnat. In retrospect, what happened next was probably an accident, more Stockwell's fault than anything.

He tried to duck at the last instant, raise a hand to save himself, but it was already too late. The hard tip of the reptile's tail struck him a glancing blow, peeled back a six-inch strip of scalp and knocked him sprawling to the ground.

His world was reeling, upside down, and it was difficult to see with fresh blood in his eyes, the night stained crimson. Even so, Professor Stockwell saw the creature of his dreams lurch out of sight, away beyond the massive open gates.

And something else.

Behind it, running like the wind, he could have sworn he saw a frail old man, dressed all in black.

"We need to leave right now," said Remo, "or we won't get out of here at all."

Their Malay chaperon had Stockwell on his feet, and while the scalp wound bled as if there were no tomorrow, Stockwell seemed to be in no real danger. He would slow them down, of course, but that was nothing new.

"And Dr. Moreland?" Sibu Sandakan inquired, voice trembling as he spoke.

"She won't be coming."

"Audrey?" Stockwell had enough sense left to recognize the name, but he had trouble focusing his eyes.

"We'll see her later," Remo lied. "This way."

A handful of the locals had begun to gather near the fallen elephant, some of them prodding it with spears, while others watched the strangers, pointing, mouthing threats, and Remo swore softly under his breath.

It would be pointless, running, with the natives primed to follow them. While he could give them the slip or double back to kill them in the dark, he would be gravely handicapped by Sandakan and Stockwell. Better, he decided, if they finished it right here. It could mean wiping out the tribe, but Remo didn't plan to spend the next few days in hiding, dodging spears.