There was a scream of pain as the matches seared the man's face, but it became a dry rattle as the stiletto found a home in his throat. It was dark again, but Carter knew the man was done when he felt warm blood run across his hand.
Number one dropped like a stone, and just as he hit, the second one struck a clubbing blow across Carter's back. It sent Carter reeling against the wall. He hit, whirled, and swung his left arm.
It was a lucky blow. The heel of his hand struck number two full in the face. He could feel cartilage, bone, and muscle all turn to gel. Then the man was sliding down his body, trying to hold on as Carter tried just as hard to twist free.
Somehow he managed to seize an ankle and pull. Carter's feet went out from under him, and as he went down, Hugo came out of his hand. He heard it hit the floor and slither off somewhere under the bottles. In an instant, the whole weight of the other man's body fell on Carter, knocking the breath from him and pinning him down.
Just as quickly, Carter felt himself being flipped. A hand slid across his face, and the inner side of an elbow sought his throat.
The intent was all too clear. The man was going to bend Carter's head back until the spine snapped.
Carter tensed his throat muscles before the grip became stationary. At the same time, he managed to get his chin slightly under the man's wrist.
It wasn't much for leverage, but it was enough to sink his teeth deeply into the flesh.
He bit down with all the strength in his jaws, bringing a howl of pain from the man's throat. Carter waited until he could taste blood and feel bone with his teeth, and then he started grinding.
It worked.
The arm loosened from his throat. Carter bucked upward, raising the straddling body off him. Before the man could come back down again. Carter slipped over and brought both knees up in a crunching blow to the other's groin.
There was another howl of pain, and the man fell forward limply. Carter brought his left forearm across the windpipe, folded his right arm around the neck, and pressured it in a vise.
Even in unconsciousness the man struggled, but only for a few seconds. Then he settled down against Carter again.
Carter was about to push the very dead weight off him, when there was a scraping sound and a sudden shaft of light.
From where he lay, pressed against the floor, Carter could see beneath the bottles ranged on the wine racks. At the far corner of the room, where the vaulted door had been locked, there was now bright light slanting across the stone floor.
He could see two pairs of boots. The object being lowered to the floor between them he guessed to be a wine litter. Evidently, two servants had entered through the small door from the kitchens above to fill an order for wine.
"The damn light is off again."
"Did you bring a flashlight?"
"Of course not."
"Open the door a little wider. Maybe that will be enough light."
The boots moved around the racks, coming toward the aisle in which Carter lay with a body beside him and another half on top of him.
He tensed, ready to heave the corpse and run. when they turned one aisle short and moved down it.
They moved down the aisle, gathering bottles as they came. Not daring to breathe, Carter followed the progress of the two pair of boots in the slanting yellow light.
And then his eye caught a glint of light off metal on the floor. Directly in front of the first pair of boots lay his stiletto. Four, perhaps even three more steps, and one of the boots would kick it or step on it.
Using every bit of strength in his body, still partially holding the corpse over him lest something in the man's pockets clatter if he were dumped off, Carter wriggled to the side. Inch by inch, he approached the wine rack.
The boots were shuffling sideways now, accompanied by the clink of bottles going into the litter.
The boot was six inches from the stiletto when Carter slid his hand under the lowest rack.
His fingertips matched the distance of the servant's boot from the knife: two inches.
He wriggled again. The body was slipping off. The boots were sliding.
There was a crash.
"You idiot! What happened?" His boot kicked the stiletto right into Carter's hand, but the sound of the crashing bottle had distracted him.
"It's too damned dark. Let's get out of here before we break more."
"What about this mess?"
"Clean it up tomorrow."
Carter slid the knife back to his side of the rack and held his breath until the door closed behind them. The moment he heard the bolt slide, he pushed the body away and sprinted to the outside door.
One quick glance through the crack in the door told him the immediate area outside was deserted.
But that could be — and probably was — misleading. There was still the woman.
He darted into the alley and paused. From a narrow shaft of light coming down from an upper window, he assessed the damage.
It wasn't good.
Physically he was all right, but he looked as though he had just barely survived World War III.
There was a rent in the side of his coat, and one sleeve hung half off. Another tear in his shirt revealed an ugly red welt. Beneath it, everything he wore was splotched with blood.
It would be back alleys ail the way back to the hotel. But only after a short detour.
Somewhere near the mouth of the curving alley between the buildings in front of him, Carter knew she would be waiting.
Quickly, he unlaced his shoes and retied them to the back of his belt under his jacket. Then he moved forward in a low, running crouch, keeping himself almost entirely in the shadows.
He moved around the curve without a pause, and then around a second.
Just around it, Carter saw her, dead ahead, about twenty feet away. In each hand was a shoe with the heel removed. In place of the heel on each shoe there was a two-sided, six-inch dagger.
"Amal…?"
Carter didn't answer her, and he didn't slacken his speed. She was partially illuminated by a pool of light from a nearby house. When he charged into the same light, she recognized him and bent into a fighting stance.
Carter didn't change direction, pause, or reverse. He just barreled ahead. Three feet from her, she feinted to the left. Instead of countering and trying to escape around her, Carter moved with her.
It took her by surprise, but she gamely tried to nail him before he hit.
It didn't work.
Carter grabbed her wrists and turned them as they collided. The knives bit deep, one in the fleshy part of each shoulder.
She muffled her own cry of pain as she went down, and Carter ran on over her.
At the mouth of the alley he looked back once, and saw the mask of torment and pain on her face as she pulled first one and then the second piece of steel from her own body.
He hit the larger street, went a block, and then darted into a doorway. He waited, crouched, controlling his breathing. When ten minutes had elapsed, he chanced a look.
Nothing.
Slowly, still in his stocking feet, he retraced his steps and looked down into the narrow alley.
She was gone.
It took him another two minutes to find a spot of blood on the sidewalk, and then another.
He followed the spots for seven blocks, until he was sure of her destination, and then he broke off and headed for the hotel.
Two blocks short of the Amstel, on an dimly lit street, he darted into a phone booth and dialed the number the arms dealer had given him.
The woman had less distance to travel than Carter had to the hotel. It was a good bet that she had already arrived.
The phone was answered on the fifth ring.
"Oakhurst, this is Jasmine."
"Yes." The voice was noncommittal.
"Did you receive my message?"
"Yes." Now it was a whisper.