The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,6

dead leaves across the old slate floor tiles. Clay slipped as he came in, caught himself, started towards the fireplace. He’d taken three steps when a flash of movement caught the furthest edge of his vision.

Clay’s instinctive turn towards danger was less than one-eighth complete when the blow caught him high on the left shoulder, knocking him off his feet. He crashed to the floor, the MP5 flailing about his neck. A dull ache spread through his arm, replaced almost immediately by that acute precision of screaming nerves, hot and wet. He turned to see his assailant slam down hard onto the slate, forearms breaking the fall with a crack, a bloodied blade in his left fist. It was the gunman, the Boer from outside. He’d slipped as he lunged in attack, and now he grunted in pain, scrambled to his knees and dived at Clay, the blade flashing. Clay rolled left and whipped his arm across his body and down onto the man’s forearm, deflecting the blade and sending his attacker twisting to the floor. Clay followed through, driving the man’s knife hand down hard onto the slate flag. The knife spun across the floor. Clay groped for the MP5’s pistol grip. His finger found the trigger. He was about to raise the weapon for a shot when the Boer lunged. A burst roared out in the enclosed space. Rounds clattered off stone, splintered wood. The Boer hit him with a full body tackle, punching the air from his lungs. He came down hard on the slate. The Boer’s full weight was on him now. The pistol grip was gone from his hand. The Boer grabbed for the MP5’s forestock, wrenched it hard, jerking Clay’s head forward. They were face to face, inches apart, the smoking weapon wedged between their bodies. The Boer was trying to pivot the MP5’s muzzle down into Clay’s chest. Clay could feel the thing digging into his ribs. He twisted his torso and drove his hand into the space between their bodies and grabbed the weapon. As he did, the Boer bared his teeth like an enraged hyena, snapped his head forward. Clay turned his head just as the Boer’s jaw cracked shut, an enamel snap and the kiss of lips against his cheek. A kiss that would have taken away half his nose. Clay’s hand was on the pistol grip now. He found the trigger guard, prised away a finger, crushed it against the curved metal of the guard. The man screamed in pain. Then the shallow-grave rip of the MP5, its detonations muffled and drummed up through two chest cavities. Bullets shredded the kitchen cabinetry. Cordite stung his nostrils. For a fraction of a second they stared at each other, realising that somehow neither had been hit. Clay had his thumb wedged into the pull space behind the trigger now and jerked back hard on the pistol grip, hammering his knee into the man’s body. The Boer grunted, clamped down hard on the MP5. The guy was strong. Clay was winning the battle for the trigger but losing the fight for the gun. He tried to roll out, but the Boer outweighed him. He could feel the bastard’s breath on his face, smell the cigarettes and crap coffee. The gun’s barrel was coming down onto Clay’s throat, touching now, as the Boer levered his weight, still trying to pry Clay’s fingers from the trigger. Clay gasped for breath, pushed back with all his strength. He could feel the barrel crushing his windpipe. Pain seared through his brain, began its too-quick metamorphosis into panic. The Glock was there in his belt, he could reach it with his stump. If he still had two hands this would be over. But he didn’t, and it wasn’t. The Boer shifted his balance forward, putting all his weight into the MP5, trying to choke Clay to death, going for the kill.

There are moments in any struggle, any battle, when outcomes hinge on the thinnest line, a fraction of a degree. Now, Crowbar used to call it back then, during the war. The moment when winning or losing, living or dying, depended on what you did right now. Whatever Crowbar was, he was no fatalist. Nou, seuns, he’d yell, charging forward, R4 dispensing single-shot judgement on any who chose to stand and die. Now.

Clay raised his knees and pushed up hard against the floor, a powerful hip thrust that over-balanced his attacker, momentarily releasing the pressure on his