up and wiped his lips. Something caught his eye across the way.
A man stood off to the side of the plaza. He was of medium height, with close set dark eyes, black hair, a thin black mustache and neat beard. He wore a shapeless brown jacket, baggy brown pants and a dirty yellow shirt. He was talking on a cell phone.
He was s miling.
The smile vanished when he saw Carter looking at him. He turned and walked away, holding the phone to his ear.
Who smiles at a slaughterhouse? Carter started after him .
Brown Jacket picked up his pace. He glanced back and turned into a wide alley between two buildings. Nick wished he had his .45. The Israelis had refused to let him carry it. He began running. Shouts sounded behind him as he sprinted into the alley.
The alley crossed between the buildings to the next street over. Brown Jacket and two others stood halfway down. At the far end of the passage a white Volvo waited, motor running, one man inside. Brown Jacket said something to the two men and walked toward the car. The others started toward Nick.
The larger man wore a loose blue jacket over a dingy white shirt and jeans. His head was bullet shaped and shaven. His face was dissolute, with ridges of old scar tissue over eyes that looked dead. His ears were crumpled cauliflowers and his hands were broad clubs, scarred with swollen and broken knuckles. A street fighter, a boxer.
The other man was the leader . He was small, mean looking and dark, with shiny, squinty eyes, a scruffy beard and a nasty smile that showed gaps in his teeth. The two separated, a few feet apart, Squinty to Nick's right, Boxer to his left. A flash of steel appeared in each man's hand.
Knives. He hated knives.
Words echoed inside his head.
You've got two choices in an alley fight. Run or attack. If you attack, if there's more than one man, go for the leader. Always take out the leader first.
He walked straight at them. Not what they expected. Then he sprinted at Squinty and shouted from deep in his gut, a harsh, primal scream that vibrated off the alley walls. It froze both men, just long enough.
Squinty lunged forward, the knife held straight out and low, coming up for a classic strike under the rib cage to rip the diaphragm and the aorta. Carter grasped his wrist and reached over with his left hand, levered up and out and broke Squinty's elbow, using momentum to fling him to the side. He side kicked and took out Boxer's knee.
The knee folded sideways at an impossible angle. It crunched and broke, a deep, unmistakable sound of terrible injury and unbearable pain. Boxer screamed and slashed out as he went down. A cut cold as ice opened along Nick's thigh.
Boxer tried to sit up. Carter kicked him in the throat. He clutched his neck and fell back choking. His eyes opened wide in terror as he tried to breathe. At the other end of the alley, Brown Jacket got into the Volvo. As the car drove off, he threw Nick a look of venomous hatred.
Squinty reached for his knife with his left hand . Nick kicked him hard in the head, a kick that could have got him into the NFL. Back at the entrance of the alley two cops appeared, guns drawn, shouting. Carter raised his hands, fingers spread wide.
He guessed he was about to find out what the inside of an Israeli police station looked like.
CHAPTER FOUR
Selena and Ronnie Peete were in the basement pistol range of the Project building outside of Washington. Ronnie was Navajo, born on the Rez. He was a tough man, yet Selena had seen him reciting a sacred Navajo ritual just before the three of them were about to parachute into the highest mountains on earth.
She thought it an odd mix, a man who could hold on to something sacred or an MP-5 with equal ease. He'd been in Nick's Recon unit in Afghanistan and Iraq, and, she thought, a few other places people didn't usually hear about. Sometimes she felt a little jealous of the bond between the two men.
Ronnie was b road shouldered and narrow hipped. He had sleepy brown eyes
A man stood off to the side of the plaza. He was of medium height, with close set dark eyes, black hair, a thin black mustache and neat beard. He wore a shapeless brown jacket, baggy brown pants and a dirty yellow shirt. He was talking on a cell phone.
He was s miling.
The smile vanished when he saw Carter looking at him. He turned and walked away, holding the phone to his ear.
Who smiles at a slaughterhouse? Carter started after him .
Brown Jacket picked up his pace. He glanced back and turned into a wide alley between two buildings. Nick wished he had his .45. The Israelis had refused to let him carry it. He began running. Shouts sounded behind him as he sprinted into the alley.
The alley crossed between the buildings to the next street over. Brown Jacket and two others stood halfway down. At the far end of the passage a white Volvo waited, motor running, one man inside. Brown Jacket said something to the two men and walked toward the car. The others started toward Nick.
The larger man wore a loose blue jacket over a dingy white shirt and jeans. His head was bullet shaped and shaven. His face was dissolute, with ridges of old scar tissue over eyes that looked dead. His ears were crumpled cauliflowers and his hands were broad clubs, scarred with swollen and broken knuckles. A street fighter, a boxer.
The other man was the leader . He was small, mean looking and dark, with shiny, squinty eyes, a scruffy beard and a nasty smile that showed gaps in his teeth. The two separated, a few feet apart, Squinty to Nick's right, Boxer to his left. A flash of steel appeared in each man's hand.
Knives. He hated knives.
Words echoed inside his head.
You've got two choices in an alley fight. Run or attack. If you attack, if there's more than one man, go for the leader. Always take out the leader first.
He walked straight at them. Not what they expected. Then he sprinted at Squinty and shouted from deep in his gut, a harsh, primal scream that vibrated off the alley walls. It froze both men, just long enough.
Squinty lunged forward, the knife held straight out and low, coming up for a classic strike under the rib cage to rip the diaphragm and the aorta. Carter grasped his wrist and reached over with his left hand, levered up and out and broke Squinty's elbow, using momentum to fling him to the side. He side kicked and took out Boxer's knee.
The knee folded sideways at an impossible angle. It crunched and broke, a deep, unmistakable sound of terrible injury and unbearable pain. Boxer screamed and slashed out as he went down. A cut cold as ice opened along Nick's thigh.
Boxer tried to sit up. Carter kicked him in the throat. He clutched his neck and fell back choking. His eyes opened wide in terror as he tried to breathe. At the other end of the alley, Brown Jacket got into the Volvo. As the car drove off, he threw Nick a look of venomous hatred.
Squinty reached for his knife with his left hand . Nick kicked him hard in the head, a kick that could have got him into the NFL. Back at the entrance of the alley two cops appeared, guns drawn, shouting. Carter raised his hands, fingers spread wide.
He guessed he was about to find out what the inside of an Israeli police station looked like.
CHAPTER FOUR
Selena and Ronnie Peete were in the basement pistol range of the Project building outside of Washington. Ronnie was Navajo, born on the Rez. He was a tough man, yet Selena had seen him reciting a sacred Navajo ritual just before the three of them were about to parachute into the highest mountains on earth.
She thought it an odd mix, a man who could hold on to something sacred or an MP-5 with equal ease. He'd been in Nick's Recon unit in Afghanistan and Iraq, and, she thought, a few other places people didn't usually hear about. Sometimes she felt a little jealous of the bond between the two men.
Ronnie was b road shouldered and narrow hipped. He had sleepy brown eyes
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