He summoned all his remaining strength and rammed a knee hard into Lutz’s crotch. He felt the grip loosen on his throat. He swung a wild, wide haymaker that caught Lutz in the side of head and rolled him onto the ground.
Maxwell scuttled away from him, gasping for air. The two men rose, facing each other. Lutz’s nostrils were flared, his features contorted into a feral snarl.
Maxwell remembered seeing that face. It was in the martial arts course in the Navy’s preflight school at Pensacola. He’d been matched against an opponent heavier and stronger than he. The man came at him like a bear, all mass and fury and brute strength.
It was Lutz, and he hadn’t changed his style.
Lutz lunged at him, thick arms slicing the air, groping for Maxwell’s throat. A low guttural noise swelled from inside him.
Maxwell took a step back, ducked the flailing arms, and drove a hard left jab into Lutz’s face. Lutz recoiled from the blow. He blinked and shook his head, spraying blood from his nose.
Then he charged again.
Maxwell hit him again with the left jab, then followed with a hard right cross that thudded into his cheek bone. Lutz reeled backwards, somehow staying on his feet. He spat blood from his mouth and glowered at Maxwell.
He charged again.
Maxwell backed up, moving on the balls of his feet, looking for an opening. As Lutz’s big arms came for him, Maxwell saw it. He stepped in with a left jab, all his weight behind it, straight into Lutz’s face. It sounded like an ax thudding into a log.
Lutz wobbled on his feet, glasses askew, blinded by pain and fury. Maxwell moved in, driving a hard right into the broad belly. Lutz whooshed air like a whale and his knees buckled. He dropped in a heap, his head thumping up against the wrecked Toyota.
Maxwell rubbed the knuckles of his left hand. It felt like he’d broken a bone. His chest ached, and he was sure he had some broken ribs from Lutz’s first charge.
Lutz was spurting blood from his nose, breathing with a noise that sounded like a sputtering engine. His thick round spectacles were twisted, slanting across his forehead.
Lutz replaced his glasses and spat a wad of blood on the ground. For a long moment the two men held eye contact. Maxwell watched him, sure that Lutz was defeated, no longer a threat. But Lutz was a crazed animal. He’d try it again, and when he did—
There was something about Lutz’s expression. He didn’t look defeated. He was leaning back against the car, his chest heaving. His face was twisted in a smirk.
From the pocket of his jacket he produced a pistol.
Damn! Maxwell cursed himself for being so careless. He should have expected it. Of course Lutz would have a gun. That was his style — to inflict maximum pain and suffering, go for the eyes and throat. If that didn’t work, then he’d go for the gun.
It was a semi-automatic, a Beretta, Maxwell guessed, probably 9 mm. Lutz’s eyes stayed fixed on him as he raised the pistol.
Only three feet away. No place to hide, no way to escape.
“You… fucking… prima donna.” Lutz’s breath came in hoarse rasps. “I’ve been waiting fifteen years…to do this.”
Maxwell flinched at the sharp crack of the pistol shot. In the same instant he felt the hot flash of pain through his upper right arm. He clutched his left hand over the wound, feeling a warm trickle of blood through a half-inch gash in his arm.
Lutz was smiling through his battered lips. “Just like old times… isn’t it, glory hound?”
Maxwell saw the pistol raise again, aiming at his abdomen. He could make a run for it, but he dismissed the idea. It would just get him a bullet in the back instead of the front. He hoped Claire was already running, getting the hell away.
Maxwell tensed himself. He’d rush him. Maybe cause him to shoot wild. It was useless, but—
Another shot cracked the still air. He flinched, waiting for the inevitable pain. It didn’t come. Dimly he was aware that the gunshot had a different sound, a more deep-throated bark. From a different direction.
He stood there, frozen, staring at Lutz. Something had changed. Lutz was still leaning against the car, but the pistol was lowered to his side.
His glasses. The left lens of Lutz’s round spectacles had a starburst pattern with a neat hole in the center. Behind the shattered lens was a purplish cavity where Lutz’s eyeball had been.
A crashing noise came from the brush behind Maxwell. He whirled to see a burly man in a police uniform charging through the thicket. He held a heavy revolver in his outstretched hands, keeping it pointed at Lutz.
It was the cop who had tried to chase him away from Claire’s interview back at the mall. He stood over Lutz for a moment, keeping the pistol trained on him.
“I heard the shot and I—” He noticed Maxwell clutching his arm. “Uh, oh. How bad is it?”
“Could have been worse,” said Maxwell. “I don’t suppose you could have arrived a minute sooner?”
“No. Are you criticizing my marksmanship?”
“No, sir. Excellent shooting.”
“Thank you.” The cop holstered his pistol. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll live.” He looked at Lutz. His remaining eye was staring blindly into the evening sky. “Which is more than I can say for him.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Lutz.” Maxwell hesitated, no sure how much to say, not sure if he knew the truth himself. “He’s an engineer on a classified defense project.”
“So why was he trying to whack you?”
“He was, ah, selling military secrets. I got in his way.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, huh. So who are you? Some kind of spy catcher?”
Before Maxwell could come up with an answer, they heard a commotion in the thicket behind them. They turned to see Claire wading through the high weeds, making her way down to them. Her elbow was bleeding, and she had grass stains on her skirt.
She went straight to Maxwell and hugged him so tightly it made his injured ribs ache. Then she saw his wounded arm.
“Oh, Sam, are you —”
“It’s okay. Nothing serious.”
“I was so frightened, Sam. I thought you were…” She broke down sobbing, shaking uncontrollably. For nearly a minute no one spoke while Maxwell held her, stroking her hair, letting her cry.
Claire sniffed, wiped her eyes, then composed herself. She took a cautious look at Lutz’s body, shuddered and immediately looked away. “Is he. .. somebody you know?”
He nodded, telling her with his eyes to leave it alone. She nodded back, but he knew Claire. She was a reporter. The questions would come later. Lots of them.
She turned to the cop and said, “I never heard your name, officer.”
“It’s Grover, ma’am. Sergeant Earl Grover.”
“How did you happen to be here?”
“That guy.” The cop nodded toward Lutz’s corpse. “I’ve seen some mean-looking dudes in my time, but he took the prize. When I saw him back at the mall, I could tell by his face that he meant to do you folks some harm. So I decided to follow him in the patrol car.”
“You saved our lives.” Claire reached out and took his hand. “How can we ever repay you?”
The cop looked embarrassed. He removed his cap and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He scuffed his shoe on the ground, then replanted the cap on his mat of wiry gray hair. “Well, Miss Phillips, uh, there is one small favor…”
“Yes?” She looked at him expectantly.
“Me and my wife, we both just love your TV show. Would it be possible, do you think, to get your autograph?” He produced a pad of paper and a ballpoint. “She’d just be tickled to death if…”
“It would be an honor, Sergeant.”
Maxwell stood to the side while she wrote in the cop’s notebook. Claire was a mess, he observed. Her hair was disheveled, hanging in sweaty strands over her forehead. Grass stains covered the backside of her skirt. A streak of dirt ran down the length of her fine, tapered nose.