Zeb turned just in time to block the descending knife.
He jabbed his left forearm up to stop Tavez’s killing blow.
The Mexican was growling and swearing. A continual stream of words pouring out of his mouth, his eyes narrowed in concentration, and dark with hate.
He clubbed with his free hand, pounding Zeb on his face. On his neck. Wherever he could.
Fierce, punishing blows that shook Zeb to the core. He fell under the weight of the attack.
Started sliding.
Tavez on top of him. Lips parted, sweating pouring down on him. The knife arm still bearing down, Zeb still warding it off.
The cartel boss reared suddenly. He jammed his knee into the fallen man’s thigh.
Zeb groaned aloud as his vision turned dark. The knee was crushing the bullet wound. Ripping open the slowly healing flesh.
He tried to heave off the attacker.
The Mexican laughed. He had found a weakness.
He yanked the knife hand away and plunged it straight at the thigh.
Zeb clawed, found a large stone, and clubbed it at his assailant.
Tavez jumped back. Zeb got to his feet shakily.
And collapsed when the gang boss lunged at him and brought him down.
The cartel leader was on his chest, pinning him down, his heels to each side of Zeb’s body.
The rifles on his back slid smoothly on the loose gravel, like a lubricant.
The Mexican’s blows were accelerating his descent.
Zeb stopped thinking when the knife headed to his eyes.
He smashed Tavez’s neck.
The Mexican laughed.
The blade didn’t waver. One inch away.
At the last minute, Zeb shoved with all his strength and turned his head away.
The knife struck rock. Metal clanged.
Tavez didn’t pull away for another strike. He jabbed the hilt in Zeb’s neck.
Right against a nerve.
Zeb yelled. Struck.
A glancing blow that caught the Mexican’s nose. Split it. Blood started pouring down.
The gangster screamed.
He leaned back and struck with his knife.
Moved one knee to pin the operative’s right hand.
The other leg to crash into the wounded thigh.
Zeb sucked air frantically. Trying to get oxygen to sweep away the blackness engulfing him.
Take the blow.
He steeled himself. Cried out when steel sank into his left shoulder.
Tavez was taken aback. He was expecting attack. Resistance.
For a fraction of a second his thrusting and pounding stopped.
Zeb roared. Jerked his legs up. Slammed his knees into the Mexican’s back.
Tavez fell forward.
Zeb’s right fist connected with his face.
A second blow smashed into the soft flesh just beneath the collarbone.
Tavez bellowed. Tried to release the knife for another thrust.
Zeb clamped his wrist. Squeezed with all his strength until the cartel man sobbed and released the knife.
But the Mexican didn’t give up. He rained punishing blows on Zeb.
The operative retaliated, his right fist moving metronomically, landing on the man on top, wherever there was an opening.
A rib cracked.
Mine. The shrieking pain confirmed that.
His vision was fading.
But he didn’t let up.
Brought up his left arm, even though it was bloody and weakened. Smashed it against Tavez’s temple.
The killer fell away.
Zeb rolled on top.
Both men still sliding. Still heading to the bottom.
Someone screamed.
Sara.
He looked up.
They were accelerating.
Heading straight to large boulders jammed together.
With the last of his energy, he got both arms around Tavez’s upper body.
Which buried the knife deeper inside him.
Ignore.
He hauled the Mexican up.
Kicked back with his legs.
To speed up their slide.
Crashed the killer’s back against the rock.
A shriek escaped Tavez.
Zeb got a palm around his jaw.
The cartel man bit his fingers.
Ignore that too.
He slammed the killer’s head against the stone.
Kept bashing it.
Till the screams turned to cries, to pleading.
No give. No mercy. No remorse.
Zeb pounded. The earth tilted. Blurred. He still continued, savagery possessing him.
Until his world turned dark.