Tad heard something, or maybe he felt the air pressure in the room change. Suddenly, he knew they weren’t alone. He spun. There was the husband, with a gun.
Good! Tad lunged.
Michaels saw Bershaw spin, his speed was incredible, and leap at him. He was halfway though squeezing the trigger. Fast as Bershaw was, Michaels was ahead of him. The gun went off.
Bershaw tried to duck, but the bullet hit him. Michaels saw it plow a furrow into his skull, just under the hairline, but then the mirror on Toni’s closet door shattered.
Bershaw kept coming, but the bullet’s impact changed his angle a little, so he veered to the left slightly. Michaels dodged to his right, and Bershaw almost missed him.
Almost. His flailing hand smashed into the revolver and tore it from Michaels’s grasp. The gun flew, and Bershaw slammed into the dresser and landed on his hands and knees. But he looked up at Michaels and smiled — smiled! — with blood oozing from the head wound.
The bullet hit at an angle and glanced off, Michaels realized.
He had to get this maniac away from Toni, who was on the floor next to the bed.
Michaels grabbed the small television set on the stand next to the door and threw it at Bershaw, who reached up and batted it aside like it was a pillow. The TV set hit the floor and ruptured into three pieces.
He had to lead him out of here! Away from Toni!
Michaels backpedaled through the door.
Bershaw came to his feet, wiped the blood from his eyes, stuck one finger into the gory groove on his forehead, and looked at his finger. “Close, but no cigar.”
Michaels turned and ran for the living room. “Come and get me, asshole!”
Michaels risked a glance at his virgil. As soon as Bershaw came after him, Toni would be safe. The general’s men would be ready to hit the door when they heard Michaels yell for them.
Oh, shit! It was gone! The virgil was gone! Where had he lost it? The window?
He didn’t have time to worry about that now.
He made it to the living room, and he looked around frantically for a weapon, something to throw, anything!
He saw the little wooden case with the two kerambit knives in it. He grabbed it and jerked the lid off just as Bershaw came into the room. The man was moving a little slower, he was a little unsteady on his feet. The bullet glancing off his head must have had some effect.
Bershaw grabbed the end of the couch as Michaels ran around behind it, trying to slip the rings of the little curved knives onto his index fingers. Bershaw heaved, and the couch came off the floor and twisted, flew five feet, and landed upside down with a crash.
“You can run, but you can’t hide. Joe Lewis said that, did you know?”
Stall him! “What do you want?”
“You killed Bobby. I kill you. Even trade.”
“I didn’t kill him. He was shot by a rogue NSA agent working for the drug companies! That man is dead, too!”
“Doesn’t matter. You pointed the shooter at him. You get to pay.”
Bershaw moved in, his hands held out to grab.
Michaels had the little curved-bladed knives gripped solidly now, hidden behind his forearms and closed hands, only the forefinger rings showing. If Bershaw saw that, or cared, he didn’t give any indication, he just kept coming, moving like some Frankenstein’s monster that couldn’t be stopped.
Michaels took a deep breath and held it.
It might be his last.
Toni hurried down the hall. In her hand, she held the kris that Guru had given her, the wavy-bladed Javanese dagger that had been in the old lady’s family for years. Such daggers had been more ceremonial than used for a long time, but it was still a knife, when stick came to stab, and it was the only weapon in the bedroom.
She heard a loud noise, felt the floor shake as she reached the living room and saw the two men there.
Bershaw advanced on Alex.
Alex stood in a djuru stance, and Toni immediately realized he had the kerambits in his hands, even though they were all but hidden.
Even with a head wound, the man was supernaturally fast. He lashed out with one hand, and before Alex could move, he caught him with a slap that knocked him backward into the bookcase, showering him with hardbacks.
“Hey!” Toni yelled.
Bershaw turned, smiled at her. “I’ll take care of you later. Better put that down before you cut yourself, honey.”
The distraction was enough for Alex to recover a little. He grabbed several books from the shelf behind him and threw them at Bershaw.
Tad turned back to finish Michaels. He saw three books coming at him in slow motion: a red one, one with a dark dust cover, and one that opened so that the pages were flapping in the air. He dodged the dark dust covered one, backhanded the red book, and let the flapping one hit him on the chest; it was nothing.
Michaels was right behind the books, though, and just quick enough to get a punch in on him before Tad could block it. No big deal, he would absorb that and crush the fucker.
His vision went out on the left side, just flashed red and… went away.
Tad frowned and backhanded Michaels, knocking him sprawling over the overturned couch. He put his hand to his face, and it came away covered with blood and some kind of clear gel. His mind made the connection.
The son of a bitch had ripped his eye out!
How?
Michaels came up, and Tad saw how he’d done it. He had a little knife in his hand. Looked like a claw.
Tricky shit, hiding that.
Well, fine. He’d just step in, break that fucking arm, and shove that little sticker up the man’s ass, that’s what—
Tad moved in.
Something hit him in the back, and he felt a stab of minor pain.
He reached around, realized the wife had thrown that fucking curvy blade and stuck it up in the middle of his back. He grabbed the thing by the blade, pulled it out, and brought it around in front of himself. The blade was black with funny little patterns in the steel. He waved it at the woman. “Thanks. Just what I needed.”
He turned in time to see Michaels come over the couch, that little knife leading.
Tad grinned. He still held the wavy knife by the blade, only a few inches of it sticking out, but he jammed the somewhat dull point at Michaels’s forearm, drove it into the muscle, felt it grate on bone, to stop only when his hand hit Michaels’s arm.
Michaels’s hand spasmed open. So much for his little claw.
But the knife didn’t fall, it was as if it was glued to his fucking hand.
Fine, fine. You want to play? Tad jerked his own weapon free, shifted his grip, and figured he’d just get a good swing and take the whole arm off. That would get rid of the little knife damned quick. After that, he’d just carve the bastard up in little chunks.
Michaels felt the kris go into his right forearm, felt the tip hit his radius and then slip past and saw it come all the way through, just an inch or so of the point sticking out.
His hand opened on its own.
Bershaw jerked the kris free and lifted it past his ear like an ax, and he knew the man was going to chop down. Knew with his maniacal strength, the man might cleave right though the muscle and bone and slice Michaels’s hand completely off.
But he had the other kerambit. And now he was close, inside, right where a silat serak player wanted to be when it all came down. He had one chance, maybe, and he took it. He lashed out in a punch at Bershaw’s neck, a short left hook, twisting his fist as he threw it.