"You didn't think I could take him out."
"Affirmative. As I said before, Billy's fortifications were considerable. He had a tight net around that entire property. The only way in was a Trojan horse—one who's son had just been murdered."
"I suppose I should thank you," Dak quipped.
"Not necessary. All a means to an end. You're the last loose string, Dak. The last piece I need to tie off so I can rest easy, stop looking over my shoulder."
Dak smiled, an odd gesture at that moment.
"What's so funny?" Bo demanded, curiously.
"Just the thought of you unable to sleep each night. Waking up with every bump in the night. Walking down the street, glancing behind you every time you think someone is on your tail. Those are the thoughts that make it all worthwhile, Bo."
Bo let out a humph. "Yes, well. When this is over, I won't have to worry about that."
He pulled the release button on the side of the pistol, and the magazine slid out of the grip. Bo meticulously ejected each round out of the mag until it was empty, then pulled the slide on the weapon which sent the last live round tumbling onto the ground.
Dak never liked seeing people do that. It made him nervous that a round would go off. Even though he knew it was unlikely, stranger things had happened. Relief took over as the last shell came to a rest amid the gravel.
Bo tossed the pistol aside and reached to his hips. Dak had already noticed the pair of hunting knives, each black handle concealed in gray sheaths. Bo's fingers unclipped the blades from the hand guards, flipping them open with ease. He unsheathed the weapons from their slumber and flipped them over in his hands. He caught one in his right hand by the grip and the other by the tip. It was a careless, showy move that could have cut his fingers open. Unfortunately, Bo caught it with graceful ease. He laid the knife down on the ground and took a step away from Dak.
"Shall we?" Bo asked.
Dak spied the knife with caution, wondering if the second he made for the blade, Bo might cut him down. He leaned over at the hips and reached for the weapon, keeping a watchful eye on Bo.
His enemy never flinched, never made so much as a twitch in the wrong direction. He stood like a possessed statue, his gaze locked on Dak like a hungry lion.
Dak's fingers brushed against the handle, then quickly snatched up the blade. He held the curved weapon with a comfortable ease. The hunting knife was much like his favorite one back in Tennessee, one he'd practiced with often.
"I didn't want things to go down the way they did in Iraq, for what it's worth." Bo's confession did nothing to ease Dak's mind. "But you left me no choice. You should have taken your share of the treasure with us."
"Then who would've done your dirty work, taking out the others while you sat back and played?"
Bo chuckled and wagged his knife. "You make a good point. Eh, maybe you're right. This probably worked out perfectly for me."
Dak was done talking. The time had come to end this.
Last one, Dak thought. Then he twisted his body into a fighting position and surged forward.
Nineteen
Ulupelit
Dak fought two enemies. The first he had to overcome was the rage burning inside him. Not only had Bo left him for dead and kidnapped the woman he loved, he had used Dak to do his dirty work.
He lashed out before he got control of his emotions. The blade swiped recklessly through the air in front of Bo as he easily stepped back to avoid the strike. He countered with a slash of his own, drawing first blood with his initial attack. The blade slipped across Dak's forearm, opening a four-inch slit just above the wrist.
Dak snapped back, retreating at the sudden sting that screamed from the wound.
"That was stupid," Bo snarled. "Have you really gotten that rusty?"
Dak grimaced. When the pain numbed a little, he stepped to the left. Bo mirrored his movement, and the two circled as if in a deadly dance, each studying their opponent for a weakness.
"Maybe I have gotten rusty," Dak said. "But the rest of your crew might beg to differ if they were still alive."
Bo huffed. "None of them were ever as good as me, not at this. They all had their strong points, but you and I were the most well-rounded. Fitting, I think, that the two of us are the last ones standing."
Bo took a quick step toward Dak, feigning a stab to the gut. Dak recognized the fake. Instead of buckling backward, as instinct would dictate, he spun away from the strike before Bo could offer a secondary punch to the face with his free hand. As he twisted, Dak used his backhand to rip the tip of his blade over Bo's shoulder and down his tricep.
He could have gone for the killing blow a second later had Bo not reeled away at the last possible moment.
Bo growled like an angry dog. He grasped at the wound that oozed blood through his Rush T-shirt.
"This was my favorite shirt," he grumbled, glowering incredulously at Dak.
"Appropriate since you wore it to your funeral."
Bo's expression tightened into a smug grin. "Don't get cocky, now, Dak. We both know this is a fight you can't win."
"Your torn shirt and cut arm beg to differ."
Bo clenched his jaw and lunged again. He swiped and slashed in a flurry of movement. Dak jumped back from the first attack, then dipped away from the second to avoid getting a gash across the neck.
As Bo's fury wore on, the attacks grew less vigorous. Dak ducked away from another stab, but this time Bo anticipated the move
