exertion.
Dalton sensed the rising knee, twisted to his right, and felt the thudding impact of it striking his left hip. The man struck Dalton’s right wrist and the Ruger went flying. Now the knife came punching back again, a wicked streak of silver glinting in the shadow. Dalton felt the blade drive through the folds of his topcoat along his left side, a slicing, burning fire. The man was fully extended, totally committed to the power of the thrust and the necessary follow-through.
Dalton shifted to the right, caught the man’s wrist in his left hand and kicked him behind the right knee. The man went down, striking the door. The knife bounced out of his hands, a muted, tinny clang sounding as it hit the cobblestones.
Behind him now, Dalton got his left forearm under the man’s chin, jammed his foot down on the back of the man’s calf to keep him down, set himself, braced the other hand on the man’s left temple, and jerked the man’s head to the right viciously hard, meaning to tear his head right off his neck— Christ, the guy was a gorilla—it was like trying to rip a fire hydrant out of a sidewalk.
The man now knew his own death was in immediate play, one hand gouging at Dalton’s eyes, the nails of his other hand raking the skin on Dalton’s left forearm as he tried frantically to buck Dalton off his back. Dalton used all his weight and power to ride this monster backward and down, to lock him in place. If the man got his legs under him, Dalton was a dead man.
Dalton wrenched the man’s cannonball skull as hard as he was able to, his left forearm an iron bar across the man’s windpipe, his face a killer’s ugly mask. He could feel the powerful sinews and steel-cable tendons in the man’s neck straining, stretching.
Dalton put everything he had into it, and something deep inside the man’s bull neck slowly began to give way. In the muscles of his forearm, Dalton could feel the bony cartilage of the man’s voice box start to crumple. A high, keening wail, full of mortal fear and agony, came like a needle-sharp jet of high-pressure steam from the man’s gaping mouth: he was trying to speak. “Aspetta, Krokodil . . . per Dio . . . Aspetta . . .”
Dalton jerked the man’s skull around in one final surge, his powerful shoulders flexing hard, his lean, ropy muscles burning with the strain. A low, grinding creak way down deep—a sudden, meaty snap—and now the head was flopping heavy in his hands, a fat gourd on a broken stalk. The alcove filled with the sudden stink of sewage.
This was the “outside man” they were talking to on the radio, or one of them. A nice tactical move. He would have done the same, if he had anyone to deploy. Were there others? He would have to assume there were.
Dalton let the body drop, plucked the Ruger up off the ground with his left hand, the stiletto with his right, the breath burning in his lungs, his shoulders on fire with the ferocious effort it took to break a strong man’s neck.
He moved silently across to the opening of the alcove, looked out at the lagoon. The launch was still slowly crossing the open water. What had seemed like an hour of silent murder had really lasted less than ten seconds. One of the dark shadows on the launch lifted something to his lips. There was a crackle of static close by, then a hoarse whisper in Serbo-Croatian:
“Zorin? Jeste li tu? Zorin?”
Dalton bent over, ripped through the dead man’s pockets, tugged out the radio, put the mike to his lips, spoke in the same croaking whisper:
“Dah. Ja sam ovdje—”
“Krokodil?”
“Dah. Sam ubio ga. On je mrtav.”
Yes. I killed him. He’s dead.
A quick aside, something Dalton could not catch, and then an order:
“Dobar! Prižekatje ovdje. Dobiti Mirko. Prižekatje!”
Good! Wait there. We will get Mirko. Wait!
Dalton watched from the darkness of the doorway as the launch picked up some speed, heading for the stone bridge that led into the next
Dalton sensed the rising knee, twisted to his right, and felt the thudding impact of it striking his left hip. The man struck Dalton’s right wrist and the Ruger went flying. Now the knife came punching back again, a wicked streak of silver glinting in the shadow. Dalton felt the blade drive through the folds of his topcoat along his left side, a slicing, burning fire. The man was fully extended, totally committed to the power of the thrust and the necessary follow-through.
Dalton shifted to the right, caught the man’s wrist in his left hand and kicked him behind the right knee. The man went down, striking the door. The knife bounced out of his hands, a muted, tinny clang sounding as it hit the cobblestones.
Behind him now, Dalton got his left forearm under the man’s chin, jammed his foot down on the back of the man’s calf to keep him down, set himself, braced the other hand on the man’s left temple, and jerked the man’s head to the right viciously hard, meaning to tear his head right off his neck— Christ, the guy was a gorilla—it was like trying to rip a fire hydrant out of a sidewalk.
The man now knew his own death was in immediate play, one hand gouging at Dalton’s eyes, the nails of his other hand raking the skin on Dalton’s left forearm as he tried frantically to buck Dalton off his back. Dalton used all his weight and power to ride this monster backward and down, to lock him in place. If the man got his legs under him, Dalton was a dead man.
Dalton wrenched the man’s cannonball skull as hard as he was able to, his left forearm an iron bar across the man’s windpipe, his face a killer’s ugly mask. He could feel the powerful sinews and steel-cable tendons in the man’s neck straining, stretching.
Dalton put everything he had into it, and something deep inside the man’s bull neck slowly began to give way. In the muscles of his forearm, Dalton could feel the bony cartilage of the man’s voice box start to crumple. A high, keening wail, full of mortal fear and agony, came like a needle-sharp jet of high-pressure steam from the man’s gaping mouth: he was trying to speak. “Aspetta, Krokodil . . . per Dio . . . Aspetta . . .”
Dalton jerked the man’s skull around in one final surge, his powerful shoulders flexing hard, his lean, ropy muscles burning with the strain. A low, grinding creak way down deep—a sudden, meaty snap—and now the head was flopping heavy in his hands, a fat gourd on a broken stalk. The alcove filled with the sudden stink of sewage.
This was the “outside man” they were talking to on the radio, or one of them. A nice tactical move. He would have done the same, if he had anyone to deploy. Were there others? He would have to assume there were.
Dalton let the body drop, plucked the Ruger up off the ground with his left hand, the stiletto with his right, the breath burning in his lungs, his shoulders on fire with the ferocious effort it took to break a strong man’s neck.
He moved silently across to the opening of the alcove, looked out at the lagoon. The launch was still slowly crossing the open water. What had seemed like an hour of silent murder had really lasted less than ten seconds. One of the dark shadows on the launch lifted something to his lips. There was a crackle of static close by, then a hoarse whisper in Serbo-Croatian:
“Zorin? Jeste li tu? Zorin?”
Dalton bent over, ripped through the dead man’s pockets, tugged out the radio, put the mike to his lips, spoke in the same croaking whisper:
“Dah. Ja sam ovdje—”
“Krokodil?”
“Dah. Sam ubio ga. On je mrtav.”
Yes. I killed him. He’s dead.
A quick aside, something Dalton could not catch, and then an order:
“Dobar! Prižekatje ovdje. Dobiti Mirko. Prižekatje!”
Good! Wait there. We will get Mirko. Wait!
Dalton watched from the darkness of the doorway as the launch picked up some speed, heading for the stone bridge that led into the next
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