Don Pendleton - Death Dealers

There were other six-footers sprinkled here and there, but none of them appeared to be trailing him nor showing aggression. Then again, McCarter was keener to stay low profile when trailing someone, and if their enemy was assassins out to protect their conspiracy, they would not make a lot of noise, not until they were within striking distance.

No, McCarter’s opponent was quiet and had only betrayed something small that tripped his instincts, but had kept him from actually noticing the attacker. He fought against the urge to concentrate on memories and input. The best result he had in reaction to ambush was not to concentrate on what could be wrong; instead, he should just look for the whole picture. His reflexes worked finely because he didn’t distract himself from the totality of input being picked up by sight, sound and touch.

And that was when McCarter saw the person shoved out of the way, just out of the corner of his eye, an instant before he whirled in swift, certain response. McCarter folded his arm and brought the “chicken wing” down tight against his side, suddenly blocking the punch that swung at him, low and aiming at his kidney. Britain’s Special Air Service taught that an attack on an opponent’s kidneys was the surest path to incapacitating them with a minimum of fuss. A knife would cause instantly lethal renal shock, but a punch would crumple a man like a discarded newspaper.

McCarter’s elbow took the force of the stunning punch, pain jolting up through his shoulder. But the pain was not indicative of broken bone or dislocated joint because his fist still remained clenched and ready. McCarter extended his arm, snapping his fist at the foe who struck at him, but the enemy was swift. Knuckles scraped the nearly bald head of the compact fireplug of a man, but the brunt of his punch was slipped by a quick movement of his head.

The bald attacker whipped out his other fist, a punch that should have hooked around to strike McCarter at the base of his spine, but the Briton was also moving, turning to bring his other arm in front of him as a means of shielding himself. That left hook from the bulldoglike man snapped into McCarter’s own arm, blunting that strike. The ex-SAS commando lashed out with his left boot, striking toward the ambusher’s knees, but the enemy’s footwork was swift and he seemingly danced away from the initial assault.

Now that they were face-to-face, McCarter could see that this guy was some form of European, though matching the diminutive height of the rest of the Chinese populace average around him. What he lacked in height, he made up for in bulk, arms sausaged into windbreaker sleeves with big fists poking out. The Phoenix Force commander could see the deformation of his foe’s knuckles, showing that this guy had trained long and laboriously to make his hands hardened clubs devoted to pain.

The squat killer moved in again, and McCarter switched feet, stabbing out with his right to try to catch the man under his sternum. Those meaty cudgels crossed, blocking the attack, and the Briton retracted his kick even as blunt fingertips clawed at the slack around his shin. That didn’t slow the bald assassin’s onrush. McCarter kept his feet at right angles to each other, forming the tactical T that ensured it would be difficult to push him off balance. It was ingrained into his reflexes, so that even as he backed away from another snapping fist, the Briton’s footing was certain.

The sudden eruption of martial arts combat on the sidewalk made people scatter, which thankfully allowed McCarter some breathing room. He didn’t have to worry about bystanders wandering into the melee and becoming injured. McCarter slap-deflected another assault, and went on the attack, whipping his elbow around to catch his foe in the face. With both of their forward momentum combined, McCarter felt his humerus spark with the jolt of “funny bone” reactions, but was rewarded with his opponent staggering backward.

McCarter kept on the attack, only to catch a snap kick that barked off his shin, knocking the support from beneath him. The Briton staggered to his other foot to maintain his balance, spearing at the attacker with a knife hand. Fingernails gouged at forehead, bushy eyebrows and down into the enemy’s eye, McCarter making as much use of his increased reach as he could. Even as that raking slash connected, a powerful hammer struck him in his exposed side.

In his lunge, McCarter had left himself open. Ordinarily such a mistake would have come and gone too quickly for an opponent to take advantage. This time, however, the punch knocked the wind from the Phoenix Force commander and he stumbled to one knee. The squat attacker rubbed his eyes across his forearm, blinking blood away that seeped from his torn skin. The club-fisted warrior lunged in, but McCarter kicked off with all of his strength, lunging headfirst into his foe’s stomach. Fists that had been aimed for his head or neck instead fell upon his heavily muscled back and ribs. The impacts were painful, but not fatal, while McCarter lifted the killer off his stubby legs.

The Briton hooked the back of his foe’s thighs and then allowed himself to topple forward, wrenching the assassin down to the sidewalk. The man released a pained grunt before his knees wrenched upward, dislodging McCarter from his position. The Phoenix commander hammered off a side punch, unable to target his foe’s kidneys, but the body blow went further toward emptying the bald attacker’s lungs.

McCarter fired off a second punch, striking below his enemy’s belt buckle, the blow stabbing deep into the man’s groin muscles. He cupped his hand over the assassin’s knee and pushed it out hard to the side, exposing the soft inner crease that McCarter wailed a second punch into, this time aiming for the inner thigh to disrupt the femoral artery. His foe wailed in pain when that blow connected, but McCarter was not through. The Briton tangled his arm with the attacker’s lower leg, then wrenched hard.

The bald little fighter’s knee popped with an ugly sound, driving his voice into a higher octave of pain. Twisting his ankle forced the guy to flop to his stomach. This wasn’t a mixed martial arts ring fight. There would be no tapping out. McCarter slammed the guy in the kidney with everything he still had in the tank. With that final chop, there wasn’t any sign of further violence from his foe.

McCarter tested his weight on the kicked leg and felt lucky that it had merely been a glancing kick. There was no seeming fracture, and he could move his foot. That was more than his ambusher could say.

The Phoenix leader grabbed him up by his collar. As soon as McCarter had him ready to move, Gary Manning brought his minivan to the curb, honking the horn.

With a hearty heave, he slammed the bald, club-fisted assassin into the back of the van, then climbed in and slid the side door shut.

“I thought you would have had this one done long before I got here,” Manning quipped.

McCarter shrugged. “I played it out because I know how much of a bitch Hong Kong traffic is.”

Manning looked over his shoulder at McCarter. Even in the dim interior of the van, he could see the Briton had been through a hell of a fight. The Phoenix commander cinched the guy’s wrists together behind his back with cable ties, more than one just to make certain the restraints would hold the thick-shouldered killer.

The thug looked up from the floor at the two men, and McCarter rested the sole of his boot against his throat.

“Gettin’ yer throat stepped on is a slow, ugly way to die,” McCarter growled. “You might have a chance not to die if you sit still.”

“Leg.” The man spoke. The word was too short for any hint of accent to arise, but McCarter looked more closely at his appearance, pulling out his pocket flashlight and his personal cell device. With a click of the button, the commander had his prisoner’s photograph taken. A few motions with his thumb and the photograph was on its way to Stony Man Farm.