ultimately weaken and die. But he was still in the fight. And unfortunately, my KA-BAR was wedged in muscle and bone. And Cain's blade was still free.
47
you've undoubtedly heard that old story about how at the moment of death your entire life flashes before your eyes. It's not true. Well, not for me it wasn't. I guess my life had been way too eventful for that. Not many people get the luxury of playing out a billion reminders before sinking into oblivion, not when death comes in an instant. Instead of the whole panoply of incidents from an event-filled thirty-nine years, only two things flashed through my mind. First, the face of my ex-wife, Diane. It wasn't a genuine image, but one my mind conjured of future events. She was standing at my grave, but she wasn't grieving. She wore a face of disgust, even anger. As if she'd always known that this was how it was going to end.
Second—and equally poignant—an image from only minutes before. John beseeching me, 'Don't leave me.'
On reflection, those two images whorled through my mind in less than a heartbeat, so I suppose the important facets of my life could've been played out within seconds. But I didn't have the luxury of seconds. If I was to live at all, I had to act now.
I loosed the hilt of my KA-BAR. It was pointless attempting to wrench it free. While I tried, Cain could have cut enough of my hide to fashion himself a new pair of boots. Instead, I stabbed my fingers at his eyes. It didn't stop his knife from parting flesh and grating on bone, but it was enough to deflect it from my heart. It also forced us apart. It was a slow release, and I swear that I could feel every cold inch of steel as it sucked free of my chest. Cain went backward, eyes screwed tight as he tried to fight the response of tears invading his senses. I went to one knee, clutching at my chest.
Cain backed to the wall again, his shoulders brushing more bones on the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes, cursing me in short guttural snatches of sound. I remained kneeling, almost overwhelmed by the agony. His knife hadn't killed me, but at that moment I wasn't sure that the pain wouldn't finish the task for him.
Ignoring the agony, I rose up to see where he was, and already Cain was coming for me. He was half blinded, but he didn't need eyes to know I was at his mercy. He was armed. I wasn't. I was severely wounded. It would be a matter of seconds to finish the job.
But would-be is a phrase that sits alongside should-haves and couldhaves in combat. And the difference between Cain and me was that only I understood that at that moment. He hadn't seen Rink step into the doorway behind him. Rink was bleeding from his belly. He had a gash across his chin, another across his arm. His face was plastered with gore from another wound across his forehead. But life seethed in his furnace-hot gaze.
Cain faltered. Something in my face must have alerted him. He stumbled to a halt. Swung around to face Rink.
'Drop the knife,' Rink roared as he lifted a gun and aimed it at Cain's face.
Cain laughed. 'You found my gun? I wondered where I dropped it.'
'Drop the knife, Cain,' Rink said again. He stepped closer, the gun trained between Cain's eyes.
'Sorry. Can't do it.'
'Drop it now or I blow your goddamn head off.'
'I'm surprised you're still alive,' Cain said, as if he genuinely cared. 'I really thought that I'd opened you up back there.' Cain sucked air through his teeth, noting that Rink's throat was fully intact. 'I didn't realize that you got your arm in the way. I only cut your chin, eh? Suppose that'll teach me for rushing the job.'
'Don't try messing with me,' Rink warned. He looked unsteady on his feet. Loss of blood and what looked like a knock on the head were making him weak. 'I know what you're trying to do. Do you think you can get me with that pigsticker before I blow a hole in you?'
Cain glanced my way. I could see a smile begin across his face. 'You know something, Rington, I believe I could.'
I knew it. Cain knew. Even Rink knew it. The gun was empty.
'Shoot him, Rink,' I shouted.
Rink pulled the trigger.
A click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
But it was enough. Cain almost swaggered as he advanced on Rink. As he did so, I was already moving. I snatched at the clutter on the floor, came up with the first thing my grasping fingers found, and with all my might I forced the broken end of a human rib into the soft flesh in the hollow of his throat.
The result was instantaneous. Cain shuddered, his knees gave way. He stumbled toward Rink, who was already coming at him. I snatched at his left arm even as Rink grappled with his right, pulling the knife from Cain's listless grasp. Cain twisted toward me. His eyes were wide, as though caught in an epiphany of insight. His mouth was wide, too, but nothing issued forth but a gurgle. My own face was flat, emotionless, as I plucked my KA-BAR from his flesh.
We could have done it then. A frenzy of stabbing and slashing. Doling out as much torment as Cain had subjected his victims to. But neither of us succumbed to our base instincts. We did something immeasurably crueler. We allowed Cain to suffer the ignominy of a slow and painful death. If he hadn't reveled in displaying the trophies taken from his victims, I would have been left weaponless. No doubt about it . . . he'd have won the day.
Instead, he had to suffer his last few minutes of life in the knowledge that he'd messed up.
He collapsed to his knees. He searched our faces. We both grinned at him. Miraculously he found a laugh. But it was lost on us. He was simply pathetic. And he knew it.
He sobbed. Lifted a beseeching hand to me. I shook my head. He lifted faltering fingers to the half-inch stub of bone protruding from his throat.
His eyes said it all.
'You reap what you sow,' I told him.
