Dead Men's Dust

languidly, he drew a knife from his waistband, held it up before his eyes, grinned at me. 'Come on. If you think you're up to the challenge.'

    I stooped, drew my KA-BAR. Nodded. Stepped into the chamber.

    'Ding, ding. Round two.' Cain looked like he was enjoying himself.

    I pointed the KA-BAR at him, a matador taunting a bull.

    'Sanctimonious shithead,' I called him.

    Cain's lips pinched. 'I can see where John gets his colorful language.'

    I swung my head. 'Let's leave John out of this. It's between you and me, Cain.'

    He jerked forward. I feinted at his gut, and we both skipped back out of range. Cain prowled to my right. I turned with him. He hopped to the left. Ten feet separated us. Beyond him, John hung on the wall, an unwilling witness to our duel. I spared him only a glance. Cain also glanced John's way.

    'You see this, John? The great liberator has arrived. You really think he can help you? That it makes one iota of difference to your fate?'

    'Leave him out of this,' I snapped. 'Me and you, Cain. If you've got what it takes.'

    Cain smiled as if he were hiding a great secret. 'Oh, I've got what it takes. Believe me. But what about you? Up in Washington I heard your name whispered. Like you're some sort of silent killing machine that even presidents are afraid of. Me, I think it was all hyperbole. I don't think you're anywhere near as good as they say you are. Me, on the other hand, well, just look around. I reckon the proof's in the pudding. Just take a look at what I did to our mutual buddy John Telfer.'

    John made a noise, a hiss of anguish. I lunged forward, cutting at Cain's torso in a bottom-to-top oblique slash. Cain skipped away laughing. My knife edge had missed by a mile. But that was okay. I'd only cut to get Cain to move, allowing me to leap through the space he'd left and position myself before John. Realizing his mistake, Cain shook his head. Made a tut-tut noise.

    Now it was my turn to be the facetious one. I wiggled the fingers of my left hand at him, beckoning him to me. 'Come on, Cain.'

    Cain did come on. He dropped low, thrusting at my abdomen. As I shifted to block his knife, he twisted to one side. He slashed in an S, bringing the blade perilously close to my throat, a centimeter shy of my carotid artery. Only I was also ducking and my return stab forced him back on his heels. I followed him, jabbing at his throat, at his groin, back to the throat. Cain shouted in forced humor. Slashed back at me. I struck at his knife blade with my KA-BAR and sparks danced.

    I thrust my left foot into his gut. Cain absorbed most of the kick— but not all. He went into a wall, scattering bones across the floor. Immediately he spun, struck at me. It was all I could do to save my throat, at the expense of a deep cut across the back of my left hand. I flinched, and Cain saw that as a weakness. He came at me again. To show him I was no weakling, I jabbed my blade into his thigh. I'd have preferred to rip out his femoral artery, but the meat was as good a reminder of my potency as anything was. Cain didn't like it. He jumped back, slapping his free hand over the wound.

    He stood there, breathing deeply through his nose as he slowly lifted the blood-smeared hand before us.

    I nodded at him. There you go, you son of a bitch. I repositioned myself so that I guarded John from his blade. Inclined my head, inviting him in.

    Cain postured. He did an adjustment with his feet reminiscent of a young Cassius Clay—a show of bravado to indicate that the wound wouldn't slow him down any. I smiled knowingly. Bravado was the tool of a frightened man.

    'What's wrong, Cain? Not so sure of yourself anymore? It's one thing cutting up helpless people. What's it like to have your victim turn on you?'

    'Fun.'

    'I bet.' I took a slow step forward. 'Bet it isn't as much fun as when you murdered your wife and kids.'

    Cain stiffened slightly.

    'Or when you killed your brother, huh?'

    'Leave my brother out of this,' Cain said.

    I gained another half step on him. 'What was it like, Cain? Murdering those that loved you? Was it a thrill? Some sort of sick fantasy come to life?'

    Cain growled. My taunting was having the desired effect. For one, my words were angering him. An angry man doesn't reason. And when reason goes, so does training. And my speaking was forcing him to consider the actual words. Even if his response was only to swear, his brain was engaged as he deliberated his answer. While he was measuring those words, he wasn't capable of planning his next attack. It was a lesson I learned many years ago. Ask a question of your enemy. As he answers, hit him.

    'Did you watch them burn, Cain?'

    'Yes,' he replied. 'Watched them burn like torches.'

    'Bit of a waste, though. Bet you wish you'd brought them here, eh? What a waste of good bones.'

    Cain paused. I could see that there was regret behind the scowl. He opened his mouth. I didn't wait for his response. I leaped at him.

    It should have ended then. My knife should have found his throat. He should have fallen to his knees gripping his wound, attempting to halt the flow. But as I'd always been cautioned, should-haves and could-haves have nothing to do with the reality of blood and snot combat.

    Even as I stabbed at Cain's throat, he was already lifting a hand. Instead of the soft tissue of his throat, I found a sinewy forearm. All right, I wounded him sorely. If he didn't staunch the blood loss, then he would