The burst of gunfire came from the far side of the complex. It hadn’t been intentionally aimed to kill Rath, but passed far over his head. Klaus Raeder walked down the road like a Western gunslinger, changing clips as he approached, his squint never leaving the man who had once been his most loyal assistant.
The Dalai Lama seemed to come alive when he interpreted Raeder’s actions as a rescue attempt. He shifted his weight when Rath tried to return fire. The shots flew far wide as the Buddhist moved to smother his kidnapper in a bear hug. Mercer got ready for the moment the neo-Nazi let the Lama go. His machine pistol had become too heavy to hold, so he switched to the Beretta handgun. His grip was loose and shaky, his eyes barely able to focus. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear them and actually made his vision worse.
Fifty yards separated Rath and Raeder, hatred sparking between them like an electric arc. Frustrated that he couldn’t hit his former boss because of the Lama’s untutored struggles, Rath rammed the muzzle of his pistol to the Tibetan leader’s head, drawing blood. Having drawn the danger back to himself, the Lama went still, more concerned with Raeder’s safety than his own.
“No closer, Klaus,” Rath said in German, in a voice that was unnaturally calm. He’d already made whatever mental adjustments were necessary to die.
Either Raeder didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He kept coming. Mercer wished he could understand what they were saying to each other.
“Kill him, Gunther. It doesn’t matter,” Raeder said calmly. “You will still die.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I know you will.” He’d closed to within thirty yards. “What’s one more death to you, eh? I’d say it was one more soul on your conscience, but you don’t have one. I thought I had been your teacher all these years. Now I see it is you who taught me. Your life and mine are meaningless.”
“And his?” Rath forced the gun harder against the Lama’s skull.
“He believes he’ll be reincarnated on a higher plane. I’m sure he fears death even less than we do. Let him go and the two of us will end this together. Let’s see how much you have taught me.” Raeder dropped his MP-5 and threw aside the pistol in his belt. “One on one.”
“I let him go and Mercer drops me where I stand.”
Raeder flicked his eyes in Mercer’s direction and switched to English. “Don’t shoot. I am going to handle this.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Dr. Mercer, this is between Gunther and me. He is going to release the Lama if you don’t interfere.”
“Screw that.”
“Please,” Raeder begged. “I told you before that this is my mistake to fix. Allow me that. Afterward you can arrest me and throw me in jail. Let me end this my way.”
Mercer blinked, seeing two of everybody now. “You know what you’re doing?” he asked doubtfully. Raeder had boasted he was a martial arts expert, but Rath had forty pounds and four inches on him.
“Even if he wins, I guarantee he’ll be in no condition to leave this place.”
The inside of Mercer’s sneaker was spongy with blood from the sniper ricochet. “You’d better be sure about that. I’m in rough shape.” A wave of blackness swept across his vision, and he stumbled back, falling against an insulated outlet pipe that pulsed with the force of near-boiling water. He couldn’t prevent his aim from dropping.
Rath tossed his automatic and gave the Dalai Lama a shove that sent him sprawling. His glasses shattered when he hit the pavement. Though he struggled to get between the two antagonists, his injured foot refused to support him. The Lama called out for them to stop, but neither German listened.
Rath and Raeder moved closer, circling warily. Raeder threw the first punch, a lightning strike that would have crushed the throat of a normal man. Rath easily caught his fist, twisted Raeder over and kicked him three times in the stomach before releasing the arm and letting Raeder fall to the ground.
“Klaus,” he laughed. “Do you really think I taught you everything I know?”
Raeder lurched to his feet, clutching broken ribs. Mercer raised his pistol, but the two began circling again and he wasn’t sure which of the figures he saw were real and which were chimeras. He threw up. His concussion from the explosion in Building #4 was far worse than he’d thought.
The two men exchanged flurries of blows, deflecting most, landing occasionally. Both knew this match would have only one outcome. Rath was stronger, fitter, and more skilled. He’d trained Raeder and for years had allowed his pupil to win bouts to keep him interested. At any time Rath could have killed him in the dojos where they sparred — one more of Rath’s many deceptions that was turning out to be as deadly as the rest.
Soon Raeder’s mouth bled from broken teeth and one eye was nearly closed. He limped from a kick aimed at his crotch he’d deflected into his thigh. And yet he fought on, giving ground whenever Rath came in on him, sacrificing his body as if the pain would somehow expunge his sins. Mercer had to drag himself to keep the combatants in view, crawling across the rocks at the edge of the lagoon as they battled. Heat radiating from the pool drew more sweat to his already soaked face.
He was too dulled to understand what Raeder was doing, and Rath was too intent on the kill. The water feeding the nearby spa was regulated to a constant temperature of 158 degrees, hot enough to scald but cooling when it mixed in the 45,000-square-foot pool. Here, there was no need to artificially cool the effluent, and it erupted from the outlet pipes at near-boiling temperatures. Steam rose as from a volcano’s caldera.
Raeder absorbed a roundhouse kick to the head that dropped him near the outlet, and when Rath allowed him to get to his feet, he swayed drunkenly, almost toppling. As Rath came in again, the industrialist showed that last bit of reserve he’d clutched, a flicker of hatred that drilled diamond hard through the pain. Clutching Rath’s jacket, Raeder threw himself into the pool.
Mercer drew back as scorching water splashed his legs. The two men remained submerged for no more than a few seconds, and when they surfaced, Klaus Raeder had yet to relinquish his grip. Their faces and hands had turned bright red, and the water sluicing off them carried their topmost layers of skin. They were boiling alive. Writhing to break free, Rath lost his footing and sank under again, coming up when his boss no longer had the strength to hold him. It was far too late to save himself. The Nazi’s eyelids were gone. Rath’s scream was something Mercer would carry for the rest of his life. So too would he forever remember the look of triumph on Klaus Raeder’s face as he collapsed back into the water, pressing his apprentice’s body under the seething waves. Tendrils of flesh formed a sickening broth around the corpses.
A minute might have passed, maybe an hour. Mercer became aware of time again only when he felt a touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. It was the Dalai Lama. He had dragged himself over. Without his glasses, his eyes were squinted and watery.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked.
“Everywhere but my conscience.” Mercer managed a tired smile. “Are you all right?”
“I believe so, yes,” the Buddhist replied. “I wish I could have stopped them.”
Mercer rolled his head to stare into the boiling pool. “The man who saved you had a karmic debt that only his death could pay. I think it’s better you didn’t.”
Either the Lama agreed or was too played out to respond. Mercer wasn’t sure. The silence between them, punctuated by the muffled alarms still sounding from the isopentane explosion, continued until battle-dressed soldiers appeared from the mist like wraiths. They swarmed over the facility in squads of four, barrels of their M-16A1s in constant sweeping motion. A trio of medics approached Mercer and the Lama. However, another figure beat them to the wounded pair. Anika Klein’s expression showed a mix of concern and clinical professionalism. The soldiers must have already known her medical background because they deferred to her as she checked her patients.