I backed up faster now. He followed. We circled each other, bayonets pointed.
He moved like a cat, smooth, agile-as if he’d been born to bayonet fighting. Throw him off stride, I thought. Make him angry. Do something.
“Mexicans are too tough for you, Shipton. Did they know how weak you really are? Is that what you’ve been trying to hide from all your life?”
He didn’t respond, but the features of his scarred face hardened into stone. With a yell that curdled my chilled blood, he hopped forward, jabbing the bayonet at my solar plexus. I moved to my side, not backward as he expected me to, and thrust out with a jab of my own.
I missed him completely. He parried easily, then swung the butt of his rifle around in an arc toward my head. I saw it coming and dodged. The wooden stock slammed into my shoulder, knocking me backward.
Even though my socks were soaking wet, somehow I kept my footing, but he was on me now-jabbing, thrusting, parrying. It seemed as if he had three blades on the tip of his rifle. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and keep moving away. The bayonet slashed into my wrist, into my forearm, and every time I tried to make a counterthrust, my damaged right arm failed me. Even if I’d found an opening in his awesome assault, I wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of it.
He came at me remorselessly, slashing with the bayonet, not plunging it forward for the kill, but slicing along my wrists and my arms as I tried to fend off the blows. Blood splattered in the snow. He bounced back, smiling.
“Trickier than Whitcomb,” he said softly. “But still not worth a damn.”
He closed in and slashed again. I grabbed at his bayonet with my fingers but the sharp blade bit into bone and slid free. He swiped at my arms and, with the blood flowing and my flesh shredding, he cut into my shoulder, then backed off. I leaned against a wall, gore gushing down my side and leg.
“You better think of something quick,” he suggested. “Pretty soon you won’t be able to lift your arms.”
As he came at me again, I stepped away from the wall and backed off, protecting myself as best I could. He jabbed and sliced at will. Sweat blinded me. Loss of blood was making me dizzy.
He was playing with me now, taking his time to kill, enjoying himself. Cutting me on the hands and arms as he’d cut the Nurse, and Whitcomb before her.
His piercing green eyes watched me, knowing every move I made before I made it. As if he were searching into my soul. Searching for terror.
Something rattled and crashed.
Shipton hesitated. It was a mistake.
Sometimes when you’re terrified, there’s also a sense of rage. A rage you’re hardly aware of at the time. How could he do this to me? How could he do it to the Nurse?
I leapt forward, ramming my bayonet toward his throat with every ounce of strength I had. His eyes widened as he saw the cruel blade closing in but somehow-miraculously-he swiveled his head. By a quarter of an inch, the bayonet slashed past his skull.
I charged forward blindly, completely off balance, consumed by rage. Shipton sidestepped and poleaxed me with the butt of his rifle as I passed. I crashed to the snow. Shipton pointed his bayonet down at me for the kill but something rumbled, growing louder, and he looked up.
Coal struck his cheek, opening a small blossom of blood. An old wooden cart was building up speed, rolling down the narrow pathway toward us. Atop a black pile of soot perched the cross-legged Ernie. Screaming. Chucking chunks of black rock.
The cart careened across the frozen snow of the courtyard and slammed into Shipton. He went down. Ernie leapt out of the cart, screaming and pummeling him with his bare fists.
I kicked in the powdery snow, searching for the bayonet.
Knuckles cracked on bone. Ernie was down. Shipton was up. Where the hell was the bayonet?
Shipton had his back to me, scrabbling for his weapon. He was standing now, trying with frigid fingers to jam the magazine of live ammunition into its slot.
My rifle! Where was my goddamned rifle?
Ernie scrambled to his feet, yelling. With a metallic snap, Shipton’s magazine clicked into place. He pointed the M14 at us.
Thunder rained down. I looked up.
Down each pathway more coal carts rolled. Hooded men behind them, crouched and shoving. The carts burst out of the mouths of the narrow lanes and clattered across the courtyard, all heading straight for Shipton.
He swiveled the Ml4 wildly. A round exploded-but the carts didn’t stop.
Like a herd of enraged musk ox, the carts slammed into Shipton. He crumpled. The rifle flew into the air.
With his head down like a bull, Ernie charged. Screaming, he grabbed Shipton’s rifle, slipped in the slush, and crashed to the deck.
I was up, plowing toward Shipton. He regained his feet amazingly fast, but as he rose I kicked for his face. He dodged, caught my unbooted foot in his chest, and threw me back. I flailed wildly with my arms, lost my balance on the slick ice, and went down again.
The men who had pushed the coal carts backed up toward the safety of the brick buildings, as if to observe the outcome of the battle between these crazy foreigners.
Breathing heavily, Shipton braced himself on the edge of an overturned cart. He pulled the. 38 from his belt, cocked the hammer, and aimed the barrel at me.
All over now, I thought.
His eyes focused, his big paw seemed to tighten around the. 38, then something dark leapt out from behind the pile of coal.
Shipton’s eyes widened. Behind him, I saw Ernie, holding something between them like an offering. The Ml4.
Ernie thrust upward. Shipton let go his grip on the. 38 and it tumbled to the ground.
Ernie shoved up-and kept shoving-ramming the bayonet deeper into Shipton’s neck. Shipton’s mouth opened in a scream that had no sound. Slowly, like a metal tongue emerging from hell, the spike of the bayonet appeared between his teeth.
Pushing with all his might, Ernie lifted him higher into the air until Shipton let out a sort of groan and then a growl of agony rattled over the frozen snow.
Gore bubbled from his throat and flooded out of his nose. Finally, Ernie jerked back on the bayonet and Shipton flopped facedown into the snow, shuddered, and lay still.
I staggered to my feet, stumbled over Shipton’s body, and picked up the. 38. I pointed it at Shipton. His head lay twisted on the ice. Blood poured from his neck and mouth. I felt for a pulse. Then, I dropped the. 38 and sat down next to him.
Ernie was on all fours, breathing heavily, drooping his head, saliva streaming from his lips.
One of the men who had pushed the coal carts now approached. A few feet away from us he stopped and shoved back his hood. Herbalist So. The King of the Slicky Boys.
“Are you hurt, Agent Sueno?”
I surveyed my body. The cuts I’d received all seemed to be superficial. Plenty of blood but no gushing from an arterial wound. My wrist, even if it was broken, could wait until we reached the 121.
“I’ll live,” I said. “But you’ll find Mr. Ma’s corpse in the Geographic Survey building.”
No emotion showed on Mr. So’s face. He barked swift orders to the hooded men behind him. Two grabbed a cart and shoved off, heading for Geographic Survey.
I studied So’s face, thinking of how he’d manipulated me. How he’d manipulated all of us.
“The slicky boys have their compound back,” I told him, gesturing toward Shipton’s body. “No more North Korean agents to worry about. No more Whitcomb. The Eighth Army honchos will be satisfied. Everything can go back to normal.”
The leathery features of the Emperor of the Slicky Boys didn’t move but somewhere, maybe it was at the corners of his mouth, I thought I saw a trace of a smile.
He turned back to his men. “Kaja!” Let’s go.
They grabbed their carts and rumbled into the night.
Ernie and I lay in the snow like two victims of a plane crash. A few minutes later, a pair of heavy boots
