matter. I'd like to point out that I haven't killed you—yet. That seems a strong argument for my good intentions.'
'Don't try to bullshit me, Kendry. Whether you kill me or not, you still won't be able to get out of here. You probably think I'm more valuable to you alive than dead. You're wrong. You can't use me as a hostage. You think this is a Boy Scout camp?'
'Very carefully, now: Flip that weapon in the air, grab it by the barrel and hold it out to me. If I don't like the way you do it, I'll splatter your brains and soothe my conscience by reminding myself that you're not a Boy Scout.'
The Mamba, eyes fixed on Veil's gun, did as he was told. Veil took the machine pistol in his left hand and broke open the magazine against his left thigh. He flung the pistol in one direction, the magazine in another.
'Now your knife,' Veil said curtly.
The man shook his head. 'I don't have one.'
Veil made the man remove his boots and pull up his pant legs; there was no ankle scabbard. When the man pulled up his jacket and shirt, nothing showed but bare midriff.
'Lie down on your belly,' Veil commanded. 'Arms and legs spread-eagled.'
Again the Mamba obeyed. Veil knelt down on one knee between the man's outstretched legs and pressed the barrel of his revolver against the base of the man's spine. He knew that for a man like this Mamba, the thought of ending up paralyzed and in a wheelchair for the rest of his life would be more frightening than death.
'You and I are going to have a little chat, my friend,' Veil continued easily.
'If the price of my life or legs is information, you may as well start shooting right now,' the Mamba said in a voice that was thin but steady. 'I'm not going to tell you anything.'
'Wait until you hear what I have to say. We—and I'm talking about two Americans, as well as two human beings— have a problem here. I think you're really going to want to help me solve it.'
'You're the one with the problem, Kendry. No matter what you do to me, you're not getting out of this valley alive.'
'Listen to me,' Veil said in a low voice as he increased the pressure of his gun against the man's spine. 'You've got an enemy agent here—and a top-ranking one. He's probably working for the Russians, but I can't be sure.'
'You're full of shit, Kendry. You're the enemy agent. And it makes me sick to my stomach to hear you call yourself an American. You're a traitor.'
'Who's really in charge of this place?'
The Mamba moved his head slightly. Veil pressed gun against bone sharply, and the man stiffened. 'Easy,' the Mamba whispered. 'I haven't tried anything.'
'Don't. Answer my question. It's harmless enough; as you say, I'm not going anywhere.'
'It's a stupid question, because you know the answer.'
'I've got a flash for you, pal. I think Parker's number two around here. Think about it. Have you ever had any indication that Parker takes orders from someone else? I mean, someone here, someone who may not be in uniform.'
'Fuck you, traitor. You're either out of your mind or fishing for something else; either way, I'm not going to answer any more questions.'
'Get up,' Veil said, rising to his feet and backing away slightly. 'Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly.'
'Are you going to kill me?' the Mamba asked in a neutral tone as he rose and turned.
'I don't think so; not as long as you continue to behave yourself.'
The man's eyes narrowed. 'I can't believe that you took out Dan in a fair fight, Kendry. I really wish I could get a shot at you myself.'
'Not today, pal,' Veil replied laconically. 'I doubt that I'd be much of a match for a big, young bull like you. My guest accommodations here left a little to be desired, as you may have noticed. I'm still a little shaky. Besides, I'm pushing forty. Why would you want to beat up on an old man?' Veil paused, smiled thinly, then tossed his revolver to the Mamba. 'Merry Christmas.'
The startled Mamba snatched the .38 out of the air, immediately stepped forward, and pressed the bore squarely against Veil's forehead. His green eyes gleamed. 'Want to test my reflexes, Kendry?'
'No.'
'What the hell do you think you're doing? You just signed your own death warrant.'
'I sincerely hope not. I'm feeling generous, and I gave you my gun as a gesture of goodwill. Now I'm your prisoner. Take me to your leader.'
'Are you trying to be funny?'
Veil sighed. 'I want you to take me to Parker, pal—with as little fuss and as quickly as you can, if you don't mind. I'd just as soon nobody saw us.'
'Parker's dead.'
Veil felt a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach that had nothing to do with the drug he had been taking. His enemy was in an even bigger hurry than he'd thought, and his own plan was rapidly falling apart. 'Shit,' he said quietly. 'When?'
'A half hour after you escaped. You should know; you killed him.'
'Smell the barrel of that gun. It hasn't been fired in the past twenty-four hours.'
'You killed Colonel Parker with his own gun. And what the fuck am I doing standing here talking to you? Turn around and start walking, Kendry. Hands clasped behind your head.'
Veil remained still, chafing at the knowledge that he'd lost a day. 'Why would I give you my gun if I'd killed Parker?'
'Because you're a smart-ass who isn't half as clever as he thinks he is. Once you got out of the cage and killed the Colonel, you realized that you couldn't get out of the compound on your own. Maybe you thought you'd bluff your way out.'
'You do have to get me out,' Veil said evenly, fighting against the panic he felt welling in him. There was just no way to rush what he had to do. 'And you have to do it quickly. Every minute we stand here means that other lives are in danger. It also means that the man you really want is probably putting more distance between us.'
'You must take me for a fool.'
Veil took three quick steps backward; at each step the firing pin of his .38 fell on an empty chamber. The Mamba cursed and threw the revolver away.
'I mentioned that I was feeling generous,' Veil said as he took the knotted strap he had made from the leather pouch and drawstring out of his breast pocket. 'I didn't say suicidal.'
The Mamba instantly went into a fighting stance, forming the fingers of his left hand into a claw that was thrust out at eye level. The right hand flicked to a hidden scabbard behind his neck and came away gripping a large Bowie knife. Then he began to move, circling Veil, varying his speed, knife hand and empty hand weaving intricate, hypnotic patterns in the air less than two feet from Veil's face.
Veil, who had spent ten years learning classic
First came a feint with the knife, which Veil ignored, then a sidekick, which was parried. He did not try to counterpunch or kick; the knife in the Mamba's hand was too dangerous for that, allowing no margin of error.
Veil had no doubt that the Mamba's master was well versed in many schools of combat, but the Mamba was simply too young to have gone much beyond becoming master of one style, which in this case was Japanese. The Mamba was most likely unfamiliar with Thai 'scarf' fighting, with which a master could successfully defend himself against an armed attacker, in the meantime blinding or strangling his opponent, using no more than a simple handkerchief which he had wetted with his own saliva. And a whip, Veil thought, was considerably more deadly than a handkerchief.
A slight cocking of the Mamba's hips indicated to Veil that the man was getting ready for a combination of