Yeah, I thought. Good point, even if it was made by a patronizing Limey shithead.
“Our patrol came across your friend here, and called it in. We just put it all together and dropped in to say hello … Hello.”
“You're pretty relaxed about things,” I said, annoyed at my own tactical stupidity. Goddamn it, it's not easy sneaking up on the SAS — that's why they're the SAS. “I get the feeling you think you're just going to walk on out of here.”
“Actually, sunshine, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.”
“And I'm just going to let you?”
“You won't have a choice.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you're going to be dead, Cooper. That's why I'm here.”
“You came back, just to kill me?”
“Had to. Had three good reasons to.”
“You need three?”
Butler smiled like he was enjoying himself. “Pride. I wanted to prove to myself that killing you could, in fact, be done. Also, it's clear you just won't give it a rest until I do. And finally, I promised a mutual friend. So there you go — had to.”
“We have a mutual friend who wants me dead?” A mutual friend? I was glad whoever it happened to be wasn't an enemy. Who could that be? Boyle groaned.
“Don't for a moment think I'm going to tell you who,” Butler said. “I've said too much already. I'm going to enjoy sending you off to hell guessing. So, what's it going to be, Cooper? Shall I put a bullet in your friend here, or do you want to give her a fighting chance?”
I didn't have a whole lot of choice. My arms, stretched out in front of me, were beginning to cramp. I glanced at Rossi. She was continuing to lose blood. She needed a hospital and she needed one now.
I nodded.
“So, what? I just surrender?” I asked.
“We put our guns down and we go at it, hand to hand, man to man. Remember this?” He kept his gun on Rossi, I kept my gun on him. Mexican standoff. His moves were slow, deliberate, and very careful. I shuffled into the room a little further and took a couple of steps off to the side. I didn't want Dortmund, if he arrived, coming up behind me. Butler reached under a fold in a bedcover and pulled out a long, slender, and very lethal blade. Yeah, I recognized it all right. Ruben Wright's Fairbairn-Sykes.
“You been going through my gear?” I asked.
“What can I say?” he said with a shrug. “I'm bad.” He held the blade up and read out the inscription on it. “And the American Way.” He glanced from Rossi to me. “‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way.' Wright was a right bloody nutcase, he was. The twerp really thought he was Superman. I couldn't believe it. He even had that dumb S symbol tattooed on his shoulder, remember?”
I remembered.
Another snort. “I used his own knife to cut him out of his harness. I wonder if he was surprised to discover he couldn't fly.”
I didn't say anything. Butler was reminiscing. So was I. In fact I was reminiscing about him doing the same thing to me.
“I was fucking his bird senseless because he couldn't get it up anymore. Some Superman. I don't think he liked it much, me fucking his missus. But Amy did. She was a screamer. Couldn't get enough pork sausage, if you know what I mean. There was nowhere we didn't fuck, and I'm not talking about venues.”
“So what do you want, Butler? Seen too much? Can't take it anymore? Looking for a nice retreat in a closed country where they hang people up by their toenails?”
Butler's eyes narrowed. “Let me answer that by asking you what you're going to do when your government decides it's time for you to retire?”
“Become a marriage counselor — I've got it all figured out. But before then, I've got a nice set of nylon cuff ties in my bag. You probably saw them when you were going through my gear. I'd like you to just slip a pair on.”
“I don't know about you, Cooper, but nothing I've done or been involved in over the years has made half a snot's bloody difference. I've seen brave men killed and cowards win. I've helped monsters get rewarded and had a hand in taking down good men. The heroes I know aren't anything more than PR fantasies — creations for recruitment drives. None of it has meant shit at the end of the day, none of it. I want something for all the hard work, for the failed missions, and for the ones that came off. I've risked, and now I want return. Something more than a pension—”
“I'm not sure what you're selling, but I'm not buying, Butler. You killed a buddy of mine. You tried to kill me the same way. And the people who pay my salary don't like you all that much, either.”
“What is it you Yanks say? Wise up? You look like you've been around the block yourself a few times, Cooper. You know the score.”
He was right, I did know the score. And mostly it was 10-0 in the other guy's favor. But that's life, isn't it? I'd never known it any different. Not when I was a kid growing up in Shit Hole, New Jersey. Not in my first marriage. Not now. It'd be great if it was different. But it never would be. For some reason, I thought of Anna and the fact that she was now seeing some JAG lawyer. Yeah, 10-0 in the other guy's favor all the way. “So you're overworked and underpaid. Join the human race,” I said. “But, before you do, put down the gun and the knife.”
“Do it your way, and the girl dies, no question,” said Butler. “Do it mine and she might live. Depends on whether you're up to the challenge.” He raised Ruben's dagger in his right hand, like he was going to throw it at me. I crouched, bracing to shoot him, arms tensed. He lowered the blade and tossed it across the rough concrete floor. It clattered to a stop by my front foot. I picked it up, moving slow, not taking my eyes or gun off Butler.
Butler pulled his own knife from a scabbard attached to his thigh. He held it up, giving me a good look. If I wasn't shitting myself, I might have been impressed. The weapon was a variation of a Ka-Bar military combat knife, though it was longer and meaner than any Ka-Bar I'd ever seen. It had to be around sixteen inches in length. The blade was hollow ground, tapered carbon steel that came to an end in a fanglike swept tip. One edge was serrated, the other honed sharp enough for a surgeon.
“I pop the girl in the head, or you and I resolve our differences hand to hand. You've got five seconds to decide, Cooper. One.”
I hesitated.
“Two.”
I had a clear shot. If I took it, would Butler still be able to squeeze off a round into Rossi's brainpan?
“Three.”
Could his trigger finger beat the bullet, a simple muscle contraction that—
“Four.”
I didn't like Rossi — her profession, her organization, or her methods — but that really didn't matter. I had no options.
“Five.”
I said, “You first. Gun down.”
“That's the problem with the world today — no trust.”
“Nope.”
“We do it together,” he said. “Our pieces go on the floor. Put your foot on it, kick it toward that corner.” He indicated which corner with the point of his chin. “Make sure it goes all the way there.”
I bent at the knees and put the Colt on the floor, mirroring Butler's moves. Removing my hand from the grip felt like saying good-bye to a buddy. Butler and I stood up, each with a foot on a handgun. We both kicked at the same time and the weapons tumbled together with a clatter into the corner and came to rest there.