Smith squeezed the Beretta's trigger. It bucked upward, and recoil slammed the slide back, ejecting the spent shell casing. But this time the slide locked to the rear. He swore under his breath. He had just fired the last of the fifteen rounds in the pistol's magazine.
The 9mm bullet hit the auburn-haired giant high up on his left side. For a brief instant the impact rocked him back. He looked down at the small red-rimmed hole in his coat. Blood pulsed in the wound, spilling slowly out across the dark fabric. Then he flexed the fingers of his left hand and waggled the fighting knife in his right. His lips twisted into a cruel grin. He shook his head in mock pity. "Not good enough. As you see, I still live."
Still grinning, the green-eyed man slowly moved in for the kill, sweeping his knife back and forth in a sinuous, almost hypnotic, arc. The deadly-looking blade glinted in the sun.
Desperately Smith hurled the now-useless Beretta at him.
The big man ducked under it and attacked. He struck with unbelievable speed, aiming for the American's throat.
Smith jerked aside. The knife blade flashed past less than an inch from
his face. He backed away fast, breathing hard.
The green-eyed man came after him. He lunged again, this time lower.
Jon spun to one side and chopped down hard, trying to break the other man's right wrist. It was like hitting a piece of high-quality steel. His hand went numb. He fell back again, shaking his fingers, trying frantically to work some life back into them. What the hell was he fighting?
The big man came prowling after him a third time, grinning even wider now, plainly enjoying himself. This time he feinted with the knife
in his right hand and then punched Smith in the ribs with his left-striking with pile-driving force.
The massive jolt knocked the air out of Jon's lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping, panting - fighting now just to stay on his feet and conscious.
"Perhaps you should have saved that last bullet for yourself," the green-eyed man suggested politely. He held up the fighting knife. "It would have been quicker and less painful than this will be."
Smith kept backing away, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. There was nothing, just sand and hard-packed soil. He felt himself starting to panic. Hold it together, Jon, he told himself. If you freeze in front of this bastard, you are as good as dead. Hell, you may be dead anyway, but at least you can make a fight of it.
Somewhere off in the distance, he thought he could hear the sound of police sirens - sirens drawing nearer. But still the green-eyed man stalked after him, eager to make his kill.
Chapter Seven
Two hundred meters away, on the edge of a small thicket of piflon pines and juniper trees, three men lay concealed in the tall, dry grass. One of them, much bigger than his companions, focused a pair of high-powered binoculars on the corpse-littered grounds of the Institute, watching the hand-to-hand combat between the lean dark-haired American and his taller, far more powerful opponent. He frowned, weighing his options. Beside him, a sniper kept one eye glued to the telescopic sight of an odd-looking rifle, slowly and steadily adjusting his aim.
The third man, a signals expert, lay in a tangle of sophisticated communications gear. He listened intently to the urgent, static-riddled voices in his headphones. 'The authorities are starting to respond more effectively, Terce," he said flatly. "Additional police, ambulance, and fire units are all converging rapidly on this location."
Understood." Terce, the man with the binoculars, shrugged his shoulders. "Prime has made a regrettable error."
His driver reacted improperly," murmured the sniper beside him.
"The driver will be disciplined," the man agreed. "But Prime knew the mission requirements. This fight is pointless. He should have left when given the chance, but he is allowing his lusts to override his better judgment. He may kill this man he hunts, but he is unlikely to escape." He made a decision. "So be it. Mark him."
"And the other, too?" the sniper asked.
"Yes."
The sniper nodded. He looked through the scope, adjusting his aim one last time. "Target acquired." He pulled the trigger. The odd-looking rifle coughed quietly. "Target marked."
Smith ducked under another deadly slash from the green-eyed man's knife. He backpedaled again, knowing that he was running out of time and maneuvering room. Sooner or later, this maniac would nail him.