His voice was softer than Smith expected and his English was perfect, utterly without trace of an accent.
Smith nodded coldly. “If I have to.”
“Then do it,” the other man told him. Without waiting any longer, he took a long stride forward, moving with a predator's lithe grace. His right hand darted inside his coat and came out gripping a razor-edged fighting knife.
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.
Suddenly the auburn-haired man slapped irritably at his neck — almost as if he were crushing a wasp. He took another step forward and then stopped, staring down at his hand with a look of absolute horror. His mouth fell open and he half-turned — looking back over his shoulder at the silent woods behind him.
And then, while Smith watched in growing terror, the tall green-eyed man began to come apart. A web of red cracks snaked rapidly across his face and hands, growing ever wider. In seconds, his skin fell away, dissolving into translucent red-tinged ooze. His green eyes melted and slid down his face. The big man shrieked aloud in inhuman agony. Screaming and writhing, the giant toppled to the ground — clawing wildly at what little was left of his body in a futile effort to fight off whatever was eating him alive.
Jon could not bear to see any more. He turned, stumbled, and fell to his knees, retching uncontrollably. In that moment, something hissed past his ear and buried itself in the earth in front of him.
Instinct taking over. Smith threw himself sideways and then he crawled rapidly toward the nearest cover.
In the grove of trees, the sniper slowly lowered his odd-looking rifle. “The second target has gone to ground. I have no shot.”
“It does not matter,” the man with the binoculars said coldly. “One man more or less is of no real consequence.” He turned to the signaler. “Contact the Center. Inform them that Field Two is under way and seems to be proceeding according to plan.”
“Yes, Terce.”
“What about Prime?” the sniper asked quietly. “How will you report his death?”
For a moment, the man with binoculars sat still, pondering the question. Then he asked, “Do you know the legend of the Horatii?”
The sniper shook his head.
“It is an old, old story,” Terce told him. “From the days of the Romans, long before their empire. Three identical brothers, the Horatii, were sent to duel against the three champions of a neighboring city. Two fought Bravely, but they were killed. The third of the Horatii triumphed — not through sheer force of arms alone but through stealth and cunning.”
The sniper said nothing.
The man with the binoculars turned his head and smiled coldlv. A stray shaft of sunlight fell on his auburn hair and lit his strikingly green eyes. “Like Prime, I am one of the Horatii. But unlike Prime, I plan to survive and to win the reward I have been promised.”
PART TWO
