He heard the soft pop an instant before Parker’s left eye exploded in a cascade of blood. Blaine hit the ground and watched as Parker’s right eye was shot in similar fashion; a third bullet caught the man in the center of his forehead before he fell. Blaine spun onto his stomach and fired a rapid burst just beyond the Avenue of the Royal Palms, where the shots seemed to have originated.
Nothing. No sound. No return fire.
McCracken’s mind worked frantically. What he was up against here was clear now. He started to reach into his pocket to exchange the rest of his dwindling clip for Sal Belamo’s exploding Splat shells.
A rustling sounded to his right, and Blaine twisted around. A kick lashed upward and pounded his wrist. The Heckler and Kock went flying. Another foot came toward his face. Blaine ducked and twisted away, saw the foot that missed him ram into the base of a tree and carve a chasm from the bark. Blaine was still rolling when another kick grazed his temple. He managed to get an arm out to block the next blow, which was aimed at his ribs.
“Get up,” instructed a voice that seemed to belong to the looming figure somewhere over him.
McCracken bounded to his feet, facing in the figure’s direction.
“Very good. You knew where I was.”
The figure was five or so inches shorter than he, but incredibly broad, stretching the confines of his black suit and turtle-neck. His clothes were not mussed. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Not even breathing hard, and he had just offed a dozen of Da Sa’s killer guards!
“I was supposed to kill you, too,” the disciple told him. “But I wanted to talk to you.”
Feigning dizziness, Blaine stumbled around on his feet, his back to the tree near where his gun had been lost.
“I could not kill you from a distance. I respect you too much.”
Blaine lunged. His fingers had barely touched the figure when he felt himself being lifted up and thrown. He crashed into the row of bushes that rimmed the fountain pool. As he started to spring upright, a savage kick to his back drove him forward again. A fist slammed his head from the rear, and stars exploded before him. Then, dazed, he felt a pair of iron-strong hands grasp his shoulders.
“Talk to me, McCracken.”
The speaker waited a few seconds for a reply; when none came, Blaine was hurled headlong over the bushes and into the fountain pool. McCracken felt his insides mashed together.
“You’re very disappointing. I expected so much more. I suppose I should have shot you the same way I shot the traitor.”
And then Blaine was being pitched back, through the bushes this time. He landed halfway between the fountain and the tree. Blaine willed his eyes to focus and saw a slight glimmer of steel near the tree, illuminated by the meager moonlight. Blaine blinked, opened his eyes again. The Heckler and Koch sharpened before him. He fingered the clips of Splats in his pocket.
The disciple emerged through the bushes, and Blaine forced himself not to move, bracing for the kick that shook his ribs and spun him onto his back. He pretended to cower there until the enemy’s powerful hand hoisted him upward and jammed his shoulder against the tree.
“Time to die,” said the figure, rock-hard fist pulled back directly in front of his face.
The fist jumped forward. Blaine shifted his head sideways just before impact, timing it close enough to feel the whoosh of power thundering by. The blow crunched into the tree as McCracken kicked into the figure’s knee, then dropped and rolled away. He retrieved his pistol, twisted, and fired all in the same motion, finger never leaving the trigger. Three bullets missed the figure that, incredibly, had remained in motion. Blaine couldn’t get a fix until the final shot, which grazed the disciple’s shoulder and spun him around briefly before he disappeared into the darkness.
McCracken ejected the spent clip, popped off the plastic coating of a fresh one, and locked Sal Belamo’s Splats home fast.
He listened for a hint of sound that might betray the disciple’s position, but there was nothing. Even if there had been, he couldn’t take a chance until he was certain. Fire a Splat without a sure target and he would give away the true potency of his weapon. He had to out-think this adversary.
A predator, he thought, so comfortable in the role of the hunter….
Why not give it to him, then? McCracken was in motion before completing the plan. He darted from the clearing, down a narrow path enclosed by a massive steel planter covered with vines. He knew the disciple would give chase, so at the first opportunity McCracken would swing around and fire a Splat.
Blaine realized he was running toward the sound of the brook. He charged up a set of stone steps built alongside a thicker patch of woods that promised cover.
When the soft rustling reached his ears, he was not surprised. The disciple was coming fast, closing the gap. When the final stone step was past him, Blaine spun and fired in the same motion, the Heckler and Koch kicking a bit more than usual behind the powerful bullet’s exit.
Twenty yards in front of him a tree exploded with a thunderous jolt. McCracken gazed down and saw a rubber ball; the disciple had used it to create the rustling sound. It rolled to a halt at the foot of the stone steps.
Damn!
A fresh sound came from his right, and he aimed that way. The Splat found a stone bench this time and blew a portion of it apart. The pistol felt heavy in his hand. The wind howled and sounded like laughter.
Just to his left and up a little rise was an ivy-wrapped stone gazebo that overlooked much of the Botanical Garden. Blaine dashed inside and dived low, beneath the waist-high wall. He could see and hear anything from this vantage point, and the position was strongly defensible. The disciple could not possibly approach without him knowing.
Or could he? McCracken couldn’t help thinking he had played straight into this monster’s hands. Maybe he was out there laughing even now, waiting only to compose himself before he struck.
Blaine wasn’t waiting. He threw himself out of the gazebo and down a steep hill that led to another dirt path in the serpentine garden. He slipped and fell, sliding the last measure of the way. He regained his feet with pistol sweeping his perimeters. He backed off, then started to run, looking for the first exit he could find.
The path widened; it was formed of hard dirt and rock, which was why the anomalous soft depression struck him so quickly. He knew the sensation all too well from Nam, and experience sent him into a headlong dive for his life.
The spikes embedded themselves in a tree at just the spot his head would have been. The disciple had attached them to a thick, pliable branch and had bent the thing tautly backward, waiting to be triggered.
Did he know I would come this way?
No, but the disciple had certainly planned for a fight and a chase. In all probability, similar traps would be set all over the garden. That thought drew Blaine’s gaze downward, which was when he saw the wire suspended over the path, affixed to a tree on either side. McCracken hurdled himself over it, then reached back and yanked it with his foot while still lying prone on the ground.
Blaine pawed his way ahead as a net mired with sharp thorns and prickers dropped down from the trees, covering the spot he had occupied just seconds before. Then he did what he knew the disciple eagerly awaited.
He screamed, a bellow of terrible agony, backpedaling on the ground at the same time. Sure enough, a shape was slinking down the path, keeping to one side. Blaine propped himself slightly upward and fired at the disciple.
But the muzzle flash encompassed the entire pistol in the same instant the roar reached his ears. The hot flames singed McCracken’s wrist and palm and he cried out in agony. His dip in the fountain must have soaked through the clip’s plastic coating just enough. He let go of the pistol and struggled back to his feet. It was clear he would have to make a stand somewhere in this garden…Somewhere without a gun.