Who raised himself from the top of the island, his useless left hand pawing at his nose and mouth. His nose was bleeding profusely, his lips a crushed pulp. He spat a bloody mess and Hunter heard the rattle of teeth hitting the floor.
Hunter’s left leg and hand were out of commission.
His right hand was empty.
Only one good leg.
And he started to feel dizzy.
“Dylan!” Another scream.
Annie…
What could he do?
Do what you know best.
Deception.
He staggered back, hopping on his right leg, leaving a trail of blood from his left along the floor. Then stopped. Stood there, tottering. A crimson puddle formed on the floor around his left foot.
He looked at the Target. Saw his eyes follow the smear of blood from the island, across the polished wood floor, to the rapidly growing pool at his feet.
Then Hunter’s left leg buckled beneath him, and he sagged to the floor.
He was sitting, now. Only his upper body and right knee remained upright. He leaned against the raised thigh, his right hand clasping his ankle to keep from falling over.
He was getting dizzier. He knew he was bleeding out.
He raised his head.
He saw that the Target knew it, too. He leaned back against the island on unsteady legs, but his bloodied mouth bore a twisted grin.
Waiting now for him to bleed to death.
Goad him.
“You should see what I did to you, you puke,” Hunter said. “I really did a number on that ugly face of yours.”
Saw the grin vanish.
Hurry…
“What’s the matter, you pussy? Afraid to finish me? I figured you were going to kick the crap out of me.”
The Target’s eyes, so long dead, came to life. Even across the room, he could see the towering rage building in them.
“Dylan!”
“Where are your balls, Wulfe?”
The Target approached him, now, stumbling, still half-stunned, with one immobilized arm, but on two powerful legs and with a long knife in his perfectly good right hand. Coming to finish him.
Deception.
“So go ahead, you worthless piece of shit. Come and stomp me.”
“Dylan! Dylan!”
Hunter clung to the cold, high place.
Hurry…
The Target loomed above him. His face was a ghastly red mask. Savage hatred burned in the once-dead eyes. He paused, weaving slightly.
“Stomp you?” his voice rumbled. “It will be a pleasure.”
He raised a heavy boot to crush his skull.
Just before it reached its apex, Hunter swept up his left arm, batting the foot outward-
– while his right hand shot up and slammed the smaller combat knife from his ankle sheath into the man’s groin.
*
Adrian Wulfe felt a giant spike of incredible pain shoot from his groin upward and outward, a shockwave that reverberated jarringly throughout his entire body. He screamed, an endless scream, dropping the knife, his hands clawing madly below his waist, trying to find the source of the red-hot spike, trying to make it stop, anything to make it stop and he was up on his toes, staggering backward away from the man, away from the source of that pain and he was about to fall…
*
With a last surge of adrenalin, Hunter pushed himself off the floor. He stood, feeling nothing now, watching the strange figure dancing frantically in front of him, then making mincing little steps backward.
He reeled toward that figure, the Target, his Target, the beast who had taken Annie, and now he would put an end to him because he was no longer on that high cold Olympus anymore, he was right down there in some savage place, a place where suppressed rage and controlled violence were now unleashed to rule…
He followed that retreating figure on legs that seemed unreliable, that seemed mired in mud, hurtling through fog, someone yelling his name, eyes on the Target…
And now he caught the Target and was pushing him back, once again bending him backward over that island countertop, collapsing onto him, staring into that mangled face. And then he remembered what he had just done, and he lifted himself enough to see the hilt protruding and blood pouring around it, and then he looked into those eyes, those hateful, bulging, agony-filled eyes, and recalled something else…
“Remember what I promised, Wulfe?” he heard someone’s rasping voice. “I said this face would be the last thing you ever saw. Look at it while you die, Wulfe.”
Then he gripped him by the shoulders and roaring with his final burst of unleashed rage, he smashed upward with his right knee, driving the hilt all the way into the Target’s body.
Watched the Target’s eyes snap open impossibly wide, then roll back somewhere into his skull.
Felt the body beneath him grow limp.
He pushed away and staggered and fell onto his back.
Raised his head. Watched the Target slowly slide off the island, down onto his knees, then face forward onto the floor.
The Target’s head landed on a newspaper. A red stain began to spread over it.
Then everything started to fade…
*
“Dylan!… Dylan!… Wake up goddamn you wake up Dylan!”
He knew that voice.
Oh yes. Annie. Where are you, Annie?
“Dylan!”
Something clicked somewhere far down in his brain.
He tried to say her name. Couldn’t.
Knew that somehow he had to find her.
Couldn’t let her go.
Opened his eyes.
A ceiling. Spinning around.
“Dylan! Please, Dylan!”
He rolled onto his side. His head was swaying, as if disconnected from his shoulders. He tried to see where the voice was coming from.
Oh. There she is. Way over there. How did you get way over there?
“Dylan. Darling, you have to come to me. You have to crawl to me.”
Of course, Annie. Just let me rest here a minute…
“Dylan!” A scream. “Wake up! Now crawl over here. Hurry, Dylan!”
Okay, Annie. I love you, you know…
He clawed his hands along the floor. It was so slippery. What is that, blood? Yes, I remember. Annie, I’m coming…
Saw the wooden boards under him moving. One at a time.
“That’s it, my love… Yes, keep coming… You’re getting closer now.”
So hard… Why is this so hard… No energy… Everything so numb…
“Don’t stop! That’s right… You’re almost here… Dylan… Listen. Do you see that knife there beside you? The knife, Dylan! Bring me the knife!”
What knife? Oh, there it is. I’m trying, Annie…
“There! You have the knife. Now bring it to me, Dylan.”
Everything so crazy. Light one minute, dark the next. Maybe when I get to Annie we can sleep…
“Okay, Dylan darling, I need you to do one more thing. Just one more, okay?”
There you are. You’re so beautiful. One more thing.
“Take the knife, Dylan. See, behind the chair? My hands are tied. I need you to cut that thing off my hands. Do it, Dylan… Do it now!”
Yes, I see it. I’ll try, Annie… It’s so hard, though…
“I feel it, Dylan, keep going, you’re doing fine, just keep cutting!”
Everything swimming. Knife. Back and forth. So hard.
He watched the funny piece of cloth part just as he lost his grip on the knife.
Then it was dark.
Then he felt himself being rolled over.
A face over his.
Hello, Annie.
He closed his eyes again.
Something pressing on his leg, squeezing.
Poking into his jeans pocket.
Somebody talking.
Grant! Shut up and listen to me…
Grant.
I know that name…
FORTY
Falls Church, Virginia
Thursday, December 25, 1:58 a.m.
Ed Cronin didn’t often see this much blood at a crime scene.
The metallic smell of it hung thick in the air. Before long, he knew, it would have a slightly rancid edge, before they cleaned it up. The CSI boys and photographer were having trouble navigating it while working over the body.