Black jerked his head back, thrust forward, butted him in the face. Lincoln gasped, involuntarily relaxing his grip on the pistol. Black yanked Lincoln’s wrist. The weapon fell to the floor. Black pushed Lincoln off him, took one step back, kicked the pistol away, then took another step back. His shoulder throbbed. Lincoln pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt. He advanced slowly, knife held low, blood streaming from both nostrils. Black retreated, one step, two steps, the kitchen knife in his left hand, his right shoulder and arm aching.
Lincoln thrust forward; Black dodged sideways, struck with the heel of his hand at the side of Lincoln’s thick neck. Lincoln jerked away, sweeping his arm at Black’s ribs. The blade sliced open six inches of skin. Black gasped, tottered back. Lincoln, seizing the moment, drove the knife up, hoping to stab Black in the throat. Black knocked Lincoln’s arm to one side, stabbed with his own knife into Lincoln’s stomach. Lincoln, likewise, knocked the blow to one side, Black’s knife whirling out of his hand. Lincoln punched at Black’s eye, then tried to stab Black in the side. Black manoeuvred a half turn, bringing his arm up, catching Lincoln’s elbow, applied a lock, tripped Lincoln, and using Lincoln’s momentum, broke the joint.
Lincoln grunted; the knife fell from suddenly numb fingers. He used his other functioning hand, groped on the floor, found the knife, seized it, thrust up. Black tried to avoid. The blade cut through his trousers, tearing a gash across his thigh.
Lincoln got to his feet, one arm dangling, clutching the knife in his other hand. Black stood back. He bled from two wounds, his right shoulder and arm were numb, his left eye swollen. Soon, he would become fatigued and weak. He would die from loss of blood. Or at the hands of Lincoln.
Not yet.
He picked up a crystal bowl full of white pebbles from a low set living room table, hurled it at Lincoln. Lincoln swept it aside with his good arm. The pebbles scattered, the glass smashed on the floor. Black used the moment, retrieved his knife, strode forward, hacked at Lincoln’s neck in an apparently random blow. Lincoln stepped back, stabbing. Black swivelled to one side, caught his arm, attempted a lock, but was too weak. Lincoln punched him on the jaw. Black reeled back, crashing into shelving. Ornaments, books toppled to the floor. Lincoln rushed forward. Black staggered to his feet. Lincoln held the knife high, poised for a downward thrust. Black caught the upraised arm. Again, Lincoln jerked his knee up. This time Black caught it, heaved. Lincoln tottered back.
They each stood, panting, Lincoln taking deep ragged breaths, his left arm held close to his chest, disabled. Black felt light-headed. He could not risk another attack. Lincoln, face pale, eyes wide, came staggering forward. Black had one last chance. He threw the knife. His aim was off. It plunged into Lincoln’s shoulder, almost to the hilt. Lincoln croaked in dismay. Summoning his last reserves of energy, Black charged forward, kicking Lincoln hard in the groin, then following it with a short, brutal uppercut. He heard Lincoln’s teeth crack together. Lincoln flipped back, landing on his back, lay still. Black sank to his knees.
Lincoln was down. But not dead.
45
Boyd Falconer sometimes jogged around the perimeter of his ranch, instead of using the treadmill. For a change of scenery. He had installed a running track. It was a two-mile circumference, skirting the boundary wall, and he jogged round twice. Early morning, when the heat wasn’t so oppressive. Though he would concede running across desert was as boring as running on a treadmill. Once a rattlesnake startled him, which livened his morning. But beyond that, the journey was the same. He did it because it was habit, and he liked to keep fit and his lungs strong.
Strapped to his waist was an elastic belt. Attached was a plastic bottle of water. He didn’t carry his mobile when he ran. One of those rare times. If he was needed, Sands would get him. Which is exactly what happened, as he was halfway round the second lap. He saw Sands gesturing at the main entrance.
Fuck, he thought. It never ends. Why should it? The industry he was in gave him an income of over a million dollars a day. If the hassle stopped, then something wasn’t working.
Hassle meant money.
He changed direction, cut towards Sands. “What is it?”
“Our Japanese friend wants to bring his trip forward.”
Sands handed him a towel. Falconer, wearing a long-sleeved running shirt and shorts, was drenched in sweat, which wasn’t unusual.
“He does?” He took a long exhalation. “He’s one difficult bastard.”
“And our wealthiest investor.”
“I fucking know that!” snapped Falconer. He dabbed his face. For an educated man, his accountant liked to state the obvious. But, he reflected, Sands was a necessary evil. Clever with money, a good administrator, a strategist. But one fucking major pain in the arse. While he was useful, his insolent comment and sarcastic retort would be tolerated. One day, his use would run out, and then another desert grave.
“When’s he coming?”
“Tuesday.”
“Fuck. Have you spoken to the doctor?”
“He says it should be okay.”
“It should be okay?” barked Falconer. “What the hell does that mean?”
Sands licked his lips, cleared his throat.
“It wasn’t the measles. A heat rash. Apparently.”
Falconer shook his head, swore under his breath.
“What the fuck am I paying that quack for?”
“Because he’s the only one who’ll do this. And he was just being cautious.”
“Cautious? He could have cost me fifteen million bucks.” He rubbed away sweat from his eyes. “She’s got to look fucking amazing. Get Lampton to sort it. Three
