37

His eyes flickering open, Connor found himself staring into the face of death for a second time that night. He’d seen it first when the boy soldier had pressed the cold steel barrel of the AK-47 against his forehead. Believing his life to be over, a nightmarish vision had flashed before him until, at the very last second, No Mercy had released the pressure on the rifle’s trigger. Instead Connor had received a brutal blow to the jaw with the gun’s stock. When he came to, Connor was confronted by death again. But this time the face was real. Black as coal, with pockmarked skin and fathomless eyes as inhuman as a snake’s, it glared at him with cruel, hard intent.

“Où est le garçon?” it asked him.

In his dazed state, Connor didn’t answer. His lack of response resulted in a savage slap across his cheek, the blow so hard, his head rang like a bell. Blinking back tears of pain, he tried to focus on his tormentor’s face. He was almost blinded by the harsh light from a kerosene lamp, and then the Black Mamba himself swam into his vision.

“Où est le garçon?” General Pascal repeated.

“I . . . don’t understand,” Connor murmured.

“Anglais!” he remarked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. He switched to a heavily accented English. “Where’s the boy?”

“What boy?” Connor replied.

The general struck him again. Stars flared before his eyes and Connor tasted blood as his lip split. But he’d been knocked around enough in kickboxing class to be able to take a few blows.

“The diplomat’s son. Or do you need another reminder?” The general raised his hand again to strike.

Bracing himself for the inevitable pain, Connor didn’t even flinch at the threat. But rather than hit him, General Pascal broke into a broad grin. “I like this one. He’s got spirit,” he announced to the soldiers encircling them. The general turned back to Connor, propped up against a rock in the heart of the rebel camp. “It’s no matter. We’ll find the boy in the morning. I hear from Blaze you’re quite a fighter. Defeating two of my soldiers.”

Connor glanced over and spotted the rebel he’d kicked into the wait-a-while bush. The man’s face, arms and legs were lacerated with small weeping cuts. Beside him stood Dredd, his mauled arm hanging useless in a bloody bandage at his side, but at least he was alive.

“Let’s have some sport, boys,” declared General Pascal. “I want to see this White Warrior in action for myself. Hornet!”

He beckoned over a boy soldier wearing a blue New Orleans Hornets T-shirt. Thickset with a heavy brow and a permanent scowl, the boy matched Connor for height but easily outgunned him in the muscle department. He looked like he’d been raised on a diet of buffalo and pure brutality.

“Let’s see how you fare against my champion.”

“I don’t want to fight him,” said Connor tiredly, aware he probably didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The general jutted his chin in the direction of Blaze, who stepped into the circle of light, dragging Amber with him. She appeared shaken but unhurt.

“Connor!” she gasped, rushing forward.

But Blaze yanked her back, unsheathed his machete and held the blade to her throat.

General Pascal grinned at Connor. “Is that enough incentive for you?”