16
When Cole had thrown himself clear of the helicopter, it had been just ten feet from the treetops; and although he’d hit them hard, the thick, supple branches had absorbed the energy of his fall.
He had tumbled through the branches, the big trees around him shielding him from the explosion as the chopper finally crashed, and he even as he fell painfully to the ground, skin cut, ripped and blistered, he immediately found himself hoping that he wasn’t the only one to survive.
Liu and most of Force One had remained behind to secure the bulk of the missiles, but Chad Davis had been there, on the far side of the chopper. He hadn’t seen him during the chaos of the attack, and prayed for his safety even as he rolled around on the needle-covered floor, agonized by the fall.
But in the end, he’d managed to struggle to his feet, his ribs aching so hard he knew they must be broken, and had started heading back toward the clearing.
The cannon had hit the launcher, but he had to be sure; for Michiko’s sake, for the sake of millions of others, he had to be sure.
The massive form of Zhou, a look of utter surprise across his face, was the first thing he saw as he left the tree line.
And then there was the launch module, missile tube still held aloft, pointed toward the sky. And inside the command car, at the launch controls, was General Wu.
He looked around; there was just the three of them left.
This was it.
Determined, despite his pain, despite his injuries, he strode out into the clearing to confront them.
17
Wu couldn’t believe it; here it was, fully fuelled and ready to go, but the damned launcher had been blasted out of position by the chopper’s cannon.
All the instruments had said the same when he’d tried to launch; two more degrees of elevation were needed.
Damn it!
He’d tried to sort the problem electronically, but it was clear that the problem was mechanical; and so, knowing exactly what he was doing and hoping he just had enough time to do it, he grabbed the huge toolkit from the cabin and went to work.
Zhou was impressed; the American was even more formidable than he’d thought.
Beaten, tortured, mutilated, the man had still followed them here; and must have thrown himself out of the chopper when it was hit, survived the fall — had he hit the trees? — and now he was walking into the clearing completely unarmed, obviously willing to take Zhou on single-handed.
Zhou had to hand it to him — there weren’t many men who would have the courage to do such a thing.
He must have been someone of substance to know those moves he’d used back in the pavilion at Beihai Park; only a handful of people in all the world were capable of using the delayed death touch.
But unfortunately for the assassin, Zhou was one of them. Still, he had seldom seen the operation of those skills used so smoothly, so effortlessly; the attack had been so good, Zhou had almost missed it.
Almost.
He’d been looking forward to getting answers from the man back in the Zhongnonhai basement cells, and not just from the obvious questions about who he was, and who had sent him; no, Zhou was far more interested personally in who had trained him, where he had learned those special skills he possessed.
But he accepted now that he would never know, because the man was about to die.
For despite Zhou’s admiration for the American’s bravery, nothing in the world was going to stop him from destroying the man completely.
18
Cole saw General Wu race around the missile truck, toolbox in hand, and he knew he still had a chance; all he had to do was get rid of Zhou.
The trouble was, Zhou was three hundred pounds of highly trained, psychopathic Shaolin monk, and Cole was exhausted, beaten, and at the very ends of his endurance.
He was also suffering from suspected broken ribs, and was completely unarmed, his weapons lost and destroyed in the helicopter crash.
But still, what had to be done, had to be done, and on he strode across the clearing, the challenge to Zhou clear.
A fight.
One on one.
To the death.
The thought of Michiko, of those millions of unsuspecting, innocent people, drove him onwards, gave him strength.
And as Zhou strode forward across the clearing to meet him, Cole knew he was going to need it.
‘You have my respect,’ Cole heard Zhou say to him as they faced each other, just six feet apart.
Cole could only think of the razor blade, the diabolical look in the man’s eye as he’d used it on him.
‘Well, you definitely don’t have mine, you sick son of a bitch.’
The comment — as well as being completely true — was also designed to anger the man, make him slip up somehow; he had to use all the leverage he could get.
Zhou’s face remained impassive though, and the men began to circle each other, assessing weaknesses, gaps, openings.
Zhou only had one functioning eye, and Cole knew that it might affect the man’s depth perception; although from what he’d seen already, that didn’t seem to be the case. He’d probably had such faults trained out of him.
He was heavy also, perhaps too heavy; although it didn’t seem to interfere with his movement, it must have restricted him in some way, Cole believed.
Well, he supposed he was about to find out.
Cole accelerated in towards Zhou — one step, two steps, covering the six feet in a sudden blur, and then his booted leg was lashing out in a vicious Thai round kick aimed at Zhou’s knee.
The big man barely moved, took the full force of the blow and just smiled.
Cole could barely believe it; the muscle around the man’s knee must have been tremendously strong, and he felt his will lessen for a moment.
But then he silenced his doubts and attacked again, ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs as he did so.
He threw out a powerful straight right towards the man’s jaw, not as fast as he could have gone, allowing Zhou the time to move his head to the side to avoid it and then he followed through with the real punch, a short-cocked left hook that came out of nowhere.
But instead of connecting with Zhou’s temple, Cole’s fist was instead stopped by one of the man’s giant hands.
In a blur of movement, Zhou grasped Cole’s wrist and bent at the waist, his other arm firing through underneath Cole’s legs, hoisting him onto his shoulders.
Just an instant later, Zhou offloaded the body by flipping it over in front of him, kneeling with one knee bent, pulling Cole powerfully downwards.
Cole knew the impact would fracture his spine and managed to turn out at the last minute, body twisting through the air, his groin terribly sore from where Zhou’s forearm had pulled up into it during the lift.
Coe landed on his feet to one side, but Zhou still had hold of his fist and pulled him forwards, the bunched fingers of his other hand lashing out towards Cole’s heart.
Knowing he would be dead if the spear-hand hit him, Cole turned quickly, the iron-like fingertips hitting him in shoulder instead, spinning him around to the side.
But still the giant had hold of his fist, and this time Cole moved in, hitting the inside of Zhou’s wrists at a nerve juncture that made the man’s hand spring open, finally releasing the captured fist.
His elbow flashed across Zhou’s body, hoping to connect with a point just below the navel, a follow-up blow after the strike to the arm which would leave Zhou paralyzed, unable to breathe.
But Zhou had anticipated the movement and dropped his weight, taking the elbow strike to the pectoral muscle instead; painful, but far from fatal.