Bolan fell. The tiers of planking onto which the terminus of the cargo complex was built was crumbling, breaking away, giving in to years of neglect and natural rot and, perhaps, even lowest-bidder union workmanship. The damage done by Chamblis’s grenade had dealt the structure a fatal blow. It could not support the weight of the men and equipment atop it, not once the explosion had ripped out its guts.
Bolan could not stop his tumble. He was rolling, he was falling, he was turning and rolling again. He felt something heavy and sharp slam into his torso, something that sent shock waves of pain through his body as alarm bells were triggered in his nervous system.
He smashed his head against a rough section of timber, slapped an arm hard against another plank, and then hit with a bone-jarring thud on his back at the bottom of what seemed a skyscraper of wooden debris. He tasted blood and felt a stiffness in his neck. Bright spots danced in front of his vision.
He remembered seeing the M-16 destroyed by the grenade blast. He reached for his Beretta, but it was not there. His shoulders were very sore, and suddenly he remembered the leather harness catching on something on the way down. The harness had been ripped from his back. His pistol was gone.
The double-edged Sting knife was still in his waistband, as was his Desert Eagle in its Kydex sheath. His war bag was gone, however, and with it most of his ammunition. The bag had been ripped free by the fall, which had probably torn the heavy canvas shoulder strap loose.
Before he tried to move, he eased the Desert Eagle from its Kydex sheath. His left hand was not of much help when he checked the magazine, for his thumb appeared to be broken. It sent shrieking signals of pain at him whenever he tried to bend it.
The Desert Eagle was chambered and held a total of eight rounds. He put it back in its holster, for as much as he wanted to have it at the ready, he needed to assess his other injuries. His thumb throbbed.
“Cooper!” Davis’s voice was very tinny in his ear. The distance at which Davis lay was either too far for the range of the little transceivers, or something about the debris surrounding Bolan was blocking the signal. Davis tried a few more times, but his voice was getting quieter, not louder. Eventually it stopped altogether.
Bolan was on his own.
He tried to move and was racked with pain. Looking down, he realized what the problem was. A shard of wood, the length of his forearm and two inches wide, projected from his abdomen.
His mind quickly scrolled through his battlefield first-aid options and discarded most of them. His first-aid kit was with his war bag, now gone. He had a smaller pocket kit with him, but it would be of little use for a wound this severe. He decided that despite the general complications associated with removing an object on which one was impaled, he would not be able to function with this length of timber jutting from his body. With his good right hand, he wrenched the piece of wood free.
The pain was so intense that he saw a rainbow of colors, which threatened to swamp him as he drifted dangerously close to unconsciousness. He could not afford that. If Chamblis were still here, somewhere, alive—
“Hello, Cooper.” Chamblis appeared above him. “That’s a nasty looking wound you’ve got there.”
Bolan tried to roll quickly out of the way, but bones ground against bone within his rib cage. He steeled himself against the pain, but it was too late. The reaction had slowed him. Chamblis was on top of him, tearing the Desert Eagle from his holster. Bolan attempted to retain the pistol, but he was fighting with one arm. Chamblis drew his knife and slashed Bolan across the right hand, creating just enough give to yank the Desert Eagle free.
“That doesn’t look good, Cooper,” Chamblis gloated. “You’ve got some cracked ribs, I’m willing to bet. Never an easy injury to tolerate.”
Bolan scissored his legs up and over, ignoring the pain. He slammed his right fist into Chamblis’s face, leaving a smear of his own blood. Chamblis came back and grabbed his left hand, wrenching the thumb hard.
Blinding white light flooded Bolan’s eyes, a lightning bolt of pain. There was an audible pop. As quickly as the pain came, it dissipated. Before Bolan could act Chamblis kicked him in the face, knocking him backward. Bolan rolled onto his stomach, desperately trying to push to his feet once more. Every combat instinct he had screamed at him to get up, to get off the ground, to get mobile so he could once again engage the enemy. His mind, so skilled in the methods of warfare, knew precisely what he had to do. His body, however, had limitations, as did any mortal man’s. Bolan was, thanks to the explosion and fall, very near his threshold for physical abuse.
“Your thumb was dislocated, Cooper,” Chamblis said. “I’ve just fixed it for you. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a bill.”
Bolan was in real trouble. Chamblis had gone over the edge into complete hysteria. He also was not unscathed from the explosion that had dropped both men to this depth. He had a nasty wound across his forehead and cheek that would, if he lived, leave him disfigured for life. He was also favoring one foot, although not so much that it affected his mobility. It was not a weakness Bolan would be able to exploit in his current condition.
In his position on all fours, Bolan knew his damaged ribs made too tempting a target for someone like Chamblis to resist. As his opponent came in, Bolan used his arms to grab the incoming kick, blunting some of its force. The savage blow still rocked him, however, taking his wind and forcing him to grab Chamblis’s leg to prevent a follow-up.
“This,” Chamblis said, “is not how we’re going to do this.” He kicked Bolan in the face again, catching him under the chin. It was a glancing blow, but it hurt. The soldier flipped over onto his back and stared up at the nighttime sky, far above. Then Chamblis was invading his field of vision again.
“We are going to duel, Agent Cooper. I am going to take your life in honorable combat.” Chamblis tucked the Desert Eagle into his belt behind his back. “Damn you, I will teach you what it is I and my fellowship have worked so hard to achieve. You will understand, before you die. Devil take you, you will understand!”
“You’re living in a fantasy world, Chamblis,” Bolan said. “You think because you and your fellow madmen got together and stabbed innocent men and women, you’re a fellowship? Some twisted idea of a church or a fraternity? You’re predators.”
“Yes!” Chamblis said. “You do understand. We are predators. We take prey. We take the weak. We control. We do. We are.”
“You’re nuts,” Bolan said. He was still lying on his back; Chamblis was making no attempt to move in. The crazed cult leader held his bowie knife tightly in his right hand. Blood dripped slowly from the terrible gash in his face.
“People like you are so quick to defame and denigrate what they cannot understand,” Chamblis said. “Look at you, Cooper. You’re a thug. Why, you’re a mass murderer! How many people have you killed today, Cooper?”
“Funny,” Bolan said, “but I don’t remember killing anybody who wasn’t trying to murder me first.”
“Isn’t that always the refuge of the scoundrel?” Chamblis said. “‘They made me do it. It was some other fellow’s idea. He started it.’”
“Self-defense,” Bolan said, “is all about who started it.”
“Philosophy, now, Agent Cooper? I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“You’re not nearly as intelligent as you think you are,” Bolan said. “Predators never are. You take what you want from those weaker. You attack only those against whom you know you can win. You tell yourself you’re risking something, or standing for something, or accomplishing something. You’re not doing any of those things. In his heart, every societal predator is just a scared little bully, trying to take something he hasn’t earned because he wants it.”
“You won’t speak to me that way,” Chamblis said. “I am an honorable, worthy foe! You will treat me with respect!”
“Respect?” Bolan asked. “Does a garbage man respect the squirrels rooting around in the trash cans? Does a doctor respect a rash? I don’t respect you, Chamblis. You may think you’re some kind of new-age warrior, some kind of figure of action and drama. You’re not. You’re a bully. A scared little boy with a weapon in his hand, an attitude on his face and a chip on his shoulder. You were nothing when you started and you’ll end as nothing. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.”
“Who’s going to make me?” Chamblis said. “You?”
“It’s payday,” Bolan said.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Chamblis said. “You forget I am no amateur. You are trying to goad me. You’re a dangerous man, Agent Cooper. Perhaps the most evil man I’ve ever met. You will not take me so easily as you took all the others.”
“Come and get it, then,” Bolan said. “But you’d better hurry. I’m getting damned tired of hearing you talk. I have to admit I’d like to shut you up myself.”
Chamblis snapped. He came in, trying for a kick, a grab, or even a slash with his knife. Bolan used his training. He pivoted on his back, using one of his legs as a drive leg, the other extended to ward off Chamblis. Whenever Chamblis came in, Bolan shot a vicious pistoning sidekick into the man’s shin. He had to suck up his own pair.
Chamblis tried to stomp him, but the outcome was the same. Bolan almost broke the shin clean, that time. On a man with less training and conditioning, more than a few of the blows would have snapped bone. Chamblis, however, was both too tough and too smart to be taken down like that.
“You have training,” Chamblis said. “You are really a very accomplished fighter. I saw it in you the moment I first saw you move. You could be one of us, Cooper! You could learn the discipline of the blade. It’s not too late. I could teach you.”
Bolan was sick and tired of hearing Chamblis talk. He permitted an opening, and when Chamblis shot in, hoping perhaps to get into Bolan’s guard and then pass it to mount and stab or punch him, Bolan grabbed the tactical flashlight from his pocket.
The combat light was a cylinder of knurled aluminum the length of Bolan’s palm. The Executioner held it in his fist and then, when Chamblis got within range, Bolan rammed the end of the light into the side of Chamblis’s skull with every bit of force he could.
Chamblis went limp. He collapsed next to Bolan, out cold.
“At least,” he said out loud, gritting his teeth against the pain, “he stopped talking.”
Bolan tried to move, but for several moments the pain of his various wounds held him immobile. Finally, he was able to push himself back to his feet, despite the agony emanating from his ribs and the bloody wound in his flank. The wound did not seem to be bleeding too quickly, all things considered; nothing too vital had been punctured.
He pulled his secure satellite phone out of his pocket. It was smashed. The device was rugged, but it, too, had its limitations, and it had never been intended to withstand something like the abuse it had been dealt. Bolan put the device back in his pocket. He could replace the phone itself with a commercial unit by swapping the coded sim card. That would not, however, do him any good at this moment. He was a long way from a box store or gift shop.
He looked up at the lip of the pit into which he and Chamblis had fallen. It was not going to be easy getting back up there.
Then there was Chamblis.
Bolan could see little choice in the matter. He was not going to execute an unconscious man. Chamblis, finally defeated, would have to face the consequences of his crimes.
But they would have to get out of this damned hole first.
Bolan took a step forward and got down to the task at hand. He reclaimed his Desert Eagle from Chamblis’s belt, holstered it and grabbed the man’s belt with his left arm. Using his right arm, he began pulling himself up through the many hand-and footholds available in the debris.
It was slow going. Like climbing a ladder one-handed, Bolan had to stop with every step, establishing his grip before changing the position of his feet. Several times, debris that seemed solid to his grasp came loose when the weight of two full-size men was balanced against it. Bolan dragged the deadweight of the unconscious Chamblis behind him, not trusting the man over his shoulder. He didn’t think his ribs would take that, and he didn’t want Chamblis waking up in that position, ready to fight. This way, if Chamblis tried to fight him, he could simply drop the man back into the pit.
“Cooper!” It was Davis’s voice in his earbud. The signal was getting stronger as he climbed.
“Cooper…here,” Bolan breathed. “Chamblis…in custody. Coming out.”
“I know,” Davis said. “I’m looking right at you.”
Bolan turned his eyes to the lip of the pit and saw a concerned Davis looking down. He kept climbing. He could tell that Davis wanted nothing more than to come down and assist, but that would put them both at risk, with no way to determine how solid the debris leading back to the top was. Bolan’s hands were sweating as the stress of his climb and the pain in his chest grew worse.
Finally, he made the top.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Davis said. He grabbed Bolan and hauled the man over the edge, careful to drag Chamblis along for the ride. “Wait,” Davis said. “He’s caught on something. Hang on, I’ve got to try and…here, Cooper, give me your arm. This won’t do. He’s hung up down there. I say drop the bastard.”
“The thought,” Bolan said, “had occurred to me.”
Bolan managed to help Davis get a firm grip on Chamblis. They dragged the man over the edge.
Chamblis’s eyes snapped open. He was holding Bolan’s leather shoulder rig in his hands, having discovered it along the way.
“Look out!” Bolan said. He pushed Davis as far from Chamblis as he could.
The crazed duelist ripped the Beretta from the shoulder leather, drawing down on Bolan. It was the unfamiliar safety mechanism that saved both Bolan and Davis from an untimely death then and there. By the time Chamblis had figured out how to operate the safety, Bolan was pointing the Desert Eagle at him.
Stalemate.
Both men slowly stood. Davis stood as well. His hand started to move for the pistol in his belt, which he had to have recovered from the warehouse. Chamblis shook his head.
“Go for that gun, Detective Davis,” Chamblis said, “and I will put a bullet in Agent Cooper. It’s only a stalemate if you don’t join in. Interfere and we’ll have the climax to a nonlinear pop-culture action drama on our hands. Nobody wants that.”
“I see you’ve found a sense of humor,” Davis said.
“Quiet!” Chamblis barked. “Two fingers. Take the gun from your belt and put it on the deck. Now!”
Davis looked to Bolan, who nodded. “Go ahead, Davis. I’ve got this.”
“It is I who have you,” Chamblis corrected. “Do not forget that, Cooper. I said we were going to duel, and we are.”
“You can still live through this,” Davis said. “You’re committing suicide, Chamblis. Put the gun down.”
“This is not suicide,” Chamblis said. “This is the final rational act of the most sane man you will ever know.”
“Somehow,” Bolan said, “I doubt that very much.”
“I know how good you are with a gun, Cooper,” Chamblis said. “We will lower our weapons simultaneously. Don’t think I don’t know just how well you are able to shoot without aiming properly. I’ve watched you do it. Follow along with me, and I will give you the chance to meet me with a blade in my hand. Your friend Davis here can then shoot me or arrest me…once the duel is over.”
“You’re on,” Bolan said. He lowered the .44 Magnum handcannon a fraction of an inch.
Chamblis mirrored Bolan’s movements. Finally, when the two men held their weapons low enough that a shot from either would not be immediately lethal, Chamblis had another suggestion.
“On the count of three,” Chamblis said, “reverse your weapon. Prepare to hand it to me butt-first. I will do the same. We can then draw our knives as we hand our pistols to young Davis, here. What say you, Davis? Does that sound fair?”
“I think it sounds like you’ve gone completely crackers,” Davis said. “But it’s your show, Chamblis.”
“Yes,” Chamblis said. “My show. On three, Cooper. One. Two. Three.” Both men reversed their weapons.
“Simple enough,” Bolan said. “Now be true to your word, Chamblis. If your honor means anything to you.”
“Please,” Chamblis said. “Do you think I am so shallow that I need such childish goading to keep my word?”
Chamblis reached for his knife.
Bolan’s finger was hooked in the trigger guard of his pistol. In a maneuver known as the Road Agent Spin, he quickly flipped the weapon on the axis of his finger, rolling it up and over into firing position again. Chamblis’s eyes widened.
Bolan shot him.
Chamblis’s gun hit the planks beneath him. He collapsed to his knees. He was shot in the lung; the maneuver Bolan had used didn’t permit much in the way of aiming. Blood bubbled up from the duelist’s mouth and leaked down his chin.
“You…you… Why would you…”
“I’m not bound by your rules, Chamblis,” Bolan told him. “You’re not calling the shots. All those people you murdered were given the same chance I just gave you, which is none at all. You think you can demand consideration? You demand nothing. You get nothing.”
“But…honor…” Chamblis whispered.
“What honor is there in a consensual duel?” Bolan said.
“I’m not here to duel you. I’m not here to make you feel good about yourself. I’m here to stop you. To take you out.”
Chamblis collapsed, folding backward on rubbery knees that could no longer support him. He smiled as he started to cough. Blood stained his chin and shirt. Then he started to laugh. It was a disconcerting, death-rattle laugh, a sardonic bark. Bolan walked over to stand above the dying man.
“What’s so funny?” Davis asked from where he stood.
“At least…” Chamblis said. “At least…I wasn’t…bored.”
The madness faded from Reginald Chamblis’s eyes.
He was dead.