what he wanted to do with you. Perhaps you could be some kind of bargaining chip in the talks with the U.S. I’m not really sure. I said it was a dumb move but he wouldn’t listen to me. At any rate, all that doesn’t matter now. We got word just a little while ago that the general no longer has any interest in you. With talks deteriorating between China and the U.S., with the attack on Taiwan imminent and Los Angeles about to be destroyed if the Americans defend the Taiwanese — he finally figured you’re just useless to him. So Yvan here has volunteered to make you go away. Permanently.”
Putnik grins at me. So this is it. They’ve kept me here like an animal and now it’s time for the slaughter. Fine. Get it over with.
“Oh, Yvan doesn’t speak English. But he wanted me to tell you he’s going to take his time. He’s interested in seeing how much pain a tough Splinter Cell like you can take. It’s for his personal research, you see. I told him you’d be happy to contribute statistics to his work. I’ll leave you two alone now. Goodbye, Fisher.”
Hendricks raps on the door and a guard unlocks it. It slams shut behind him and I’m left alone with my executioner. Damn, I wish I had the use of my hands. I could take this guy, I know I could. Just give me a fair fight.
Putnik slowly removes his jacket. Underneath he’s wearing a T-shirt. He opens his gym bag and removes a roll of tape, the kind boxers wrap around their fists before stuffing them inside their gloves. I watch as he methodically covers his hands and every now and then punches the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. He then takes out a couple of knives. One is long and slender, like a stiletto. The other is clearly a Rambo knife the size of an American bowie. He places these on the floor next to the bag. Then he looks at me, smiles, and nods his head. He’s ready.
I waste no time. I leap from the bunk and ram my head into his stomach, throwing him against the wall with a loud
Putnik stands and is no longer smiling. He moves forward and delivers a fast kick to my weakened, sore stomach. The pain is immense and it effectively paralyzes me for several seconds. Putnik walks around me, obviously intending to draw out the punishment as promised. But just as he’s standing directly behind me, I recover enough to roll over onto my back and jab my feet into his crotch. The man cries out and twists away, holding onto his groin as if I’d set it on fire. I grin in satisfaction as I pull myself up and face him, ready to attempt a side kick to his chest. But he’s ready for me; Putnik lashes out, growling like a wild animal. His eyes widen with madness, drawing further comparisons to old photos of Rasputin. The assassin leaps at me with the speed of a tiger and we both fall to the floor. His hands are around my neck as I try to buck him off. With my own hands tied, all I can do is jerk my upper body like a fish out of water and hope for the best.
Then, as if storm clouds suddenly decided to open and release a torrential rain, the high-pitched whine of an incoming missile fills the air. This is followed by an explosion that rocks the building so hard that Putnik falls over.
For a moment the two of us remain frozen. Then we hear gunfire outside. Shouts and screams. Then more gunfire. Putnik stands and raps on the door. No one comes to open it and he looks worried.
Another incoming shriek is even louder than the first. This time the temporary building we’re in is hit dead-on. It’s like being in the center of a vacuum — it feels as if the very air around you is imploding and your physical surroundings have ceased to be solid. I experience the sensation of falling but there’s nowhere to descend. All I know is the world around me no longer exists and smoke and flames have replaced it.
36
Dazed, I kick rubble off of me and attempt to assess the damage. The smells of gunpowder and burning metal are the first things I’m aware of. Then I see the blue sky and white clouds above me and realize the building I was in has been blown to bits. I’m covered in ash, pieces of steel and aluminum, and chips of concrete, but my body appears to be unharmed, I think. But my hands are still tied, damn it.
There’s more gunfire all around me. I see Chinese men running, shooting at soldiers. These men are not dressed in uniforms but rather in clothing you’d expect guerilla fighters to wear. Their heads are wrapped with red scarves.
Civilians! Civilians have attacked the base!
I roll over and brush against a jagged edge of metal that cuts into my arm. After cursing for a moment, I get an idea. I position myself in front of the sharp edge so that it rests against my wrists. As carefully as I can, I rub my wrists up and down against the serrated metal and allow it to dig into the cords that have bound my hands for a week. I manage to slice my skin a bit while doing so but I’m willing to withstand a few seconds of discomfort to be free. A minute later and the cord snaps loose. My arms groan with pain when I move them in front of me for the first time in days. It hurts so good — the relief is unbearably sweet. The cuts and nicks are bleeding all over the place but I don’t give a damn.
I push the rest of the rubble off and sit up. That’s when I see Yvan Putnik lying under a piece of concrete support. He doesn’t look too good.
The gunfire draws closer and I see a squad of soldiers retreating and firing at a group of the civilian warriors. The army seems to be no match for the newcomers. The civilians appear to be well armed and relentless. One of them carries a pennant on a stick and then I understand what’s going on. I recognize the Chinese characters on the pennant as the sign of the Lucky Dragons. Jon Ming listened to me after all. The Triad finally came to try to stop General Tun. I just hope they’re not too late.
Putnik groans and moves. Being the compassionate son of a bitch that I am, I lift the pylon off of him and slap his face a little.
“Hey!” I shout. “You all right?” Then I remember to speak Russian, so I do. Putnik opens his eyes and looks past me. He’s having trouble focusing. Finally, recognition sets in and he actually
With an unexpected burst of energy, Putnik brutally jabs his knee into my side. I gasp in pain and fall back onto burning wood and metal. I scorch my back and roll off in alarm. Putnik pulls himself to his feet, brushes off the soot, and comes at me. Krav Maga teaches you to fight as if your life depended on winning. If that means you have to fight dirty, then so be it. There are no rules in Krav Maga.
Therefore I grab a piece of the burning timber beside me and hurl it into Putnik’s face. It shatters and he recoils, clutching his eyes. Ignoring the ache in my side, I manage to stand and deliver a ferocious kick to his abdomen. The Russian doubles over, still blinded by the fiery splinters in his eyes. His position allows me to grab him from behind and apply a choke hold to his neck. Putnik struggles against me as I lift him off the ground by his head. I tighten the grip around his throat and whisper in Russian, “This is for Katia, you bastard.”
The man jerks and kicks like a wild beast but I don’t loosen the vise. After all the pain I’ve suffered in the last week, his clumsy attempts at self-defense are trivial. Finally, after thirty or forty seconds, the killer weakens. His struggles become slower and less effective until eventually he collapses in my arms. Then, for good measure, I twist his head sharply. The sound of bones cracking is music to my ears. I let him go and the corpse crumples to the ground like a rag doll.
The base is in shambles. I’m not sure what the Triad hit it with but they’ve got some heavy-duty firepower. It’s ironic that most of it came from the Shop. I make my way out of the rubble and realize I must be an incongruous sight. I’m barefoot, wearing Chinese pajamas, and I’m bloody and bruised.
Two armed Triads appear in front of me and shout a command. I’m too dazed to understand. I try to tell him in the best Chinese I can speak that I’m an American captive. They don’t understand. Then I mention the words, “Cho Kun, Jon Ming,” and their eyes light up. They nod enthusiastically and motion for me to follow. I can barely walk so one of them lets me lean on him a little. We move toward the beach, where the submarine pens are in flames. A group of Triads are standing outside the unharmed command post and waving automatic rifles in the air. They shout something that resembles a victory cry. The mass of men parts and I see Jon Ming standing in the middle and pointing a handgun at the head of another man who is on his knees. The prisoner is Andrei Zdrok.
