He had cut it too close. Even running as fast as he could in the darkness, he had found the swamp only then, only at the last possible moment. There was no chance for ambush, no chance to plan his attack. He just leapt, hoping to reach the ape-armed gunman before the bastard pulled the trigger.
He did—he did reach him—with an instant to spare. He slammed into the thug’s midsection and the Glock fired. There was a spurt of flame angled up at the sky. The bullet went wild. Tangled together, Bishop and Goldmunsen went sprawling into the mud.
For a second, Flake froze. Completely surprised, he stood staring, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other. He saw the two men struggling with each other, rolling over and tearing at each other. He could hardly understand what it was he saw.
Then he did understand. He charged toward the fight. He tried to fold the switchblade as he ran. He couldn’t. He threw it away. He dug into his shoulder holster. Fumbled out his Glock.
He was there, right on top of the battle. Bishop rose up—rose up over Goldmunsen’s fallen form. For that moment, he presented a perfect target. Flake, not a yard away, pointed the Glock at Bishop’s forehead.
Bishop shot him. He had snapped Goldmunsen’s gun from his hand. He had come up, looking for the second man. Found him—right there, right in front of him. Flake was just taking aim when Bishop opened up, sweeping the gun barrel across the little thug’s torso, squeezing off shot after shot. Three crackling explosions in the night. Three bullets in the psycho’s chest. The jolt of it made Flake stagger, made his hand go loose on the gun before he could fire back. But in the next instant, he tightened his grip again, ready to pull the trigger.
Bishop raised his weapon and sent another round into Flake’s face. The thug’s features exploded, and his body collapsed under him. He was dead on his back in the mud. The flashlight in his left hand landed on top of him, lay on top of him, shining up at the black-and-red mass where his face had been.
Now Goldmunsen heaved up under Bishop and sent the smaller man flying.
Bishop rolled on the soft earth. Sprang to his feet. He tried to bring the gun to bear in the darkness. But Goldmunsen was too fast. He unleashed a side-kick, caught Bishop’s wrist. The Glock spun free, lost in the night.
And Goldmunsen kept coming. Turned sidewise by the kick, he drove his right fist straight into Bishop’s jaw. Bishop had no time to block or dodge. It was a full hit. It sent him reeling backward. There was no pain but the force of it stunned him. Before he could get his feet under him, before he could even think, Goldmunsen struck again. Crouched low, he stepped forward and, with all the strength of his ape arm, he powered his left fist into Bishop’s solar plexus.
Bishop grunted as the air rushed out of him. He doubled over. He couldn’t think. A moment of helpless anger, frustration. Then Goldmunsen lifted his right fist high in the air and hammered it down on the back of Bishop’s head.
Bishop’s brain was knocked blank. He felt himself drop to one knee, felt himself topple over onto his side but that was all he understood of it.
He lay there in the leaves and mud. He saw Goldmunsen step to Flake’s body. He saw Goldmunsen bend down, reach down for Flake’s gun. Vaguely, he understood that this was the end of things, that he had to get up or he’d die.
But he couldn’t get up. His mind was thick and dull. His center was emptied, his strength was gone. All the same, by dumb will, he pressed a hand against the earth and tried. He shifted a knee under him. He started to raise himself.
That was as far as he got. He was caught like that—half-raised on one hand, on one knee—when Goldmunsen lifted Flake’s Glock and brought it round to train it on the bridge of Bishop’s nose.
Bishop looked up, looked into the black barrel of the gun. No chance to get it. He was dead.
Shit, he thought.
Then everything was gunfire. Two slow, shattering blasts. The night quaked with them.
Panting, still lifted on one hand, on one knee, Bishop looked up at Goldmunsen. Goldmunsen looked down at Bishop, his chest heaving. There was an expression of confusion and concern on his hatchet face. He was finding it hard to figure out what exactly had happened.
Then he staggered forward. He went down slantwise, sending up a puff of leaves as he dropped to the forest floor.
Bishop looked up over the thug’s dead body and saw Kathleen. She had recovered the gun he’d lost. She was holding it out in front of her with both trembling hands. Her eyes were wild, her face was mottled and tear-stained and contorted with rage.
Slowly, Bishop looked from her to the thug, back to her again. Slowly, he understood that she had killed him. He nodded. That was good. Better than what he was expecting anyway.
He began to work his way to his feet.
“Don’t you fucking move, you son of a bitch,” said Kathleen. And she pointed the gun at him now. “You’re next.”