The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,18

in mid-air, unleashing every remaining round in the SIG at the wooden loft – not with any expectation of hitting Khattak, but to force him to stay in cover.

The trigger clicked, the gun’s slide locking back. Empty. The roof rushed at him—

The impact sent a hammer-blow of pain through his legs. He rolled. The umbrella in his coat pocket dug hard into his side as he came to a stop and looked up.

Khattak was just a metre away, having ducked as bullets tore through the pigeon loft. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the American.

No time to reload. Adam dropped the P228 and sprang at him, tackling the Pakistani back against the wooden structure. Birds flapped in panic inside their cages. Khattak staggered, his gun clattering away across the roof.

But he was far from incapacitated, delivering a vicious kick to Adam’s stomach. The American lurched back. Khattak straightened and reached into his jacket.

He pulled out a knife.

Adam stared at the nasty little blade. It was only about four inches long, but it was serrated, sharp, strong.

And Khattak knows how to use it.

Syed’s memories provided proof. The terrorist was well-practised with a knife, both for fighting and for his own personal pleasure. More than one man had been tortured with it, finally meeting a bloody end at Khattak’s hands while his leader watched approvingly. The image of flesh peeling away from bone as easily as the skin of an orange flashed through Adam’s mind.

Khattak read the wariness on the American’s face. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he swept the blade in a series of swift, measured movements, a cobra swaying before the strike. He stepped closer.

Adam kept his gaze fixed on the knife. Syed’s knowledge of his comrade was betraying him. Khattak would be overconfident—

The blade thrust at his face.

He jerked back. Another stab forced him to sidestep. Khattak advanced, jabbing the knife. Adam dodged each time, but realised that the Pakistani was trying to corner him. He had to fight back or be trapped.

Weight in his coat. The umbrella.

He snatched it out, wielding it like a truncheon. Khattak let out a mocking laugh. He lunged, the knife aimed at the American’s chest—

Adam whipped up the umbrella. The terrorist yelped in startled pain as it cracked against his hand. Hard. The flimsy-looking cylinder was solid as a cosh.

It was no ordinary umbrella.

Anger drove him to attack again, the knife slashing at Adam’s throat. The umbrella blurred to intercept with another heavy thud. Khattak gasped through bared teeth.

Adam watched him closely, reading his face, his body movements. Khattak was still angry, but now cautious too, knowing that his advantage had shrunk. Another stab – but this stopped short, a feint, changing direction as Adam moved to block. The blade’s tip sliced through his sleeve . . . and the skin beneath.

This time it was Adam who let out an involuntary gasp. The cut was not deep, but it burned like a thin line of acid.

Khattak’s malevolent smile returned. Adam suppressed Syed’s anger, controlling his own.

Another stab—

Adam batted his arm away – then slammed the umbrella against the side of Khattak’s head.

The Pakistani lurched back. Before he could recover, Adam hit him twice more, rapid yet brutal blows to his face.

Khattak retreated, expression now fearful. Adam kept pace as the pair circled. The terrorist made an experimental jab at him, but it was easily deflected. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Khattak. ‘Who are you really?’

Adam had no answer. He continued circling, waiting for the next strike . . .

Khattak made his attack – but not the one Adam expected.

He didn’t stab with the knife. Instead he roared and rushed at the American, the blade leading his charge like a rhino’s horn.

Adam delivered a fierce hit to his head with the umbrella, but not hard enough to fell him. He twisted to dodge the knife.

He was only partly successful. It ripped through his coat, slashing across his chest. Khattak ploughed into him, knocking him backwards. They crashed against the pigeon loft. Cages broke open, terrified birds blinding Adam in a swirl of flapping wings. His foot caught something and he fell. He sensed as much as saw Khattak through the maelstrom and kicked as hard as he could. The Pakistani stumbled away from him.

Adam used his arm to shield his eyes from the whirling pigeons. The empty SIG was a few feet away.

He still had a spare magazine.

He scrabbled for the gun. He grabbed it, about to drop the umbrella