The silent attacker, a leering man with Asian features ravaged by disease, bore down on the long knife, trying with all his might to impale Kismet. The assassin was not as strong as he, but it was all Kismet could do to hold the blade away from his heart. Refusing to accept the stalemate, the attacker rose up on his toes, trying to force the blade down.
Kismet heard Elisabeth scream beside him, and his gaze flickered toward her. A second figure was moving toward them, a second curved blade reflecting silver light. Above him, the sour-breathed laughter of the assassin beat at his face like a physical assault.
Unable to force back the knife-wielder, Kismet changed tactics. He contorted his body in order to get a leg up around the man's neck. Catching the killer's throat in the crook of his knee, he drew back, pulling the attacker into a scissors hold. As his left leg came up, trapping the surprised assailant behind the shoulders, Kismet heard the dreadful sound of snapping vertebrae and knew instantly that he had broken the man's neck.
The curved knife fell from the man's lifeless fingers and dropped directly toward Kismet’s heart. He twisted, trying to avoid its downward plunge, and felt the sharp tip score his flesh before falling away.
There was an intense flare of pain, but Kismet ignored it, kicking the limp corpse away, even as he reached out to deflect the attack of the fallen man's accomplice. He grasped the second man's wrists, arresting his double-fisted stab, and redirected the man’s momentum so that he fell forward, onto the bed and atop its occupants. Kismet drove his right elbow into the man's face, and twisted his wrists, forcing him to drop his knife.
The assassin fell from the bed, rolling onto the floor and howling in pain as he cradled his injured forearms. Kismet sprang over Elisabeth and launched himself at the man who looked up in time to see Kismet looming over him. He rolled away and Kismet fell flat on the floor.
The attacker was up in an instant, racing for the doorway. Kismet rose to hands and knees, but immediately realized that the assailant was beyond his grasp. He grabbed the wooden chair tucked under the writing desk, and pitched it across the room to strike the retreating assassin legs. The man fell backward, his weight snapping the chair like matchwood. Kismet leapt after him, intent on catching the man — maybe for questioning, maybe not; he hadn’t decided yet — but the man recovered too quickly, extracting himself from the wreckage of the chair and throwing the door open. Light from the corridor spilled into the room, momentarily blinding Kismet, and in that split second, the intruder escaped.
Kismet took a step out the door, but went no further. He stood in the corridor, stark naked, feeling vaguely foolish. There was no sign of the attacker.
As he stepped back inside the stateroom, Kismet flipped on the overhead light. Elisabeth was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up around her breasts. She seemed to have regained her composure and was taking a cigarette from a metal case. Kismet walked around the bed to where the body of the first assassin lay. He knelt beside the fallen man and began searching the body for some clue as to what precipitated the attack.
“How did they get in?” asked Elisabeth, exhaling a stream of smoke.
“They must have been in here before we came in. Probably hiding under the bed.”
“You mean they were here while we—” She didn't have to finish the question, or wait for his reply before grimacing.
“I thought I had managed to sneak on board without anyone noticing,” continued Kismet, rolling the body onto its side to examine the man's back pockets. The search proved fruitless. He leaned back on his haunches and sighed. Then, his expression darkened as a new thought occurred to him. “Unless they weren't after me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Elisabeth took another drag on the cigarette. For the first time, Kismet wondered how much of her cool demeanor was merely the result of her professional skills.
“Think about it.” Before she could defend herself from the oblique accusation, Kismet rose and dug a fresh ExOficio shirt and a pair of cargo pants from his duffel bag. He also took out his Glock, loaded a magazine and chambered a round, and tucked it into his waistband at the small of back.
“Going somewhere?” asked Elisabeth.
“Our friend here is getting off before the next port.” He lifted the assassin's corpse, looping the man's stiffening arm across his shoulders. As an afterthought, he picked up the curved daggers the attackers had wielded. A cursory inspection revealed them to be crudely made and not worth keeping. He tucked them both into the dead man's belt. The body hung awkwardly against him, sagging dead weight, but Kismet managed to shuffle him toward the door. As he did, he felt a flare of pain in his chest. Blood was welling up from the stab wound, and though it was barely larger than a pinprick, an area the size of his fist was aching just to the right of his heart. He didn’t want to think about what sort of germs might be starting to colonize there, but disinfecting the cut would have to wait until he got back. “Be sure to lock the door.”
Elisabeth watched him leave without saying a word. When he was gone she lowered her head to her knees and began shaking uncontrollably, but managed to pull herself together a few moments later, and finished the cigarette.
Nevertheless, she almost screamed when an unexpected knock came at the door.
As Kismet dragged the lifeless form through the halls, careful to avoid attracting attention, he wrestled with the puzzle of the attack. He knew that, at least throughout Southeast Asia, he was probably a wanted man, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to the situation. If the two assassins had followed him, why had they waited so long to show themselves? Had they simply been waiting aboard the ship, expecting him to reunite with Higgins? If that was the case, they would also have known that Elisabeth was using his stateroom. The more he pondered it, the more convinced he was that Elisabeth herself was the target of the attack. Remembering that a second assassin still roamed the decks lent urgency to his errand.
His feelings for Elisabeth remained problematic. The unquestionable physical attraction he felt for her was undiminished, yet he was certain that she was once again using him, or worse, setting him up for another betrayal.
He felt a pang of concern also for Higgins. Perhaps in helping the actress escape, his old comrade in arms had also earned a death mark. He had no doubt the big Kiwi could take care of himself in a fight, but the assassins had struck from out of nowhere. Kismet recognized that he owed his own escape, more than anything else, to sheer luck; if he had not glimpsed the movement of shadow in the stateroom, both he and Elisabeth would now be as dead as the man whom he was dragging toward the aft deck.
Leaning the assassin's body against the railing, he made a careful visual sweep of the deck and the portholes of the next deck up. No one seemed to be up and about on the ship. Kismet casually removed the chains that blocked the disembarkation gate and helped the assassin on the next step of his journey. The limp shaped was instantly swallowed by the dark water.
When he got back to the stateroom, he knocked, hoping that Elisabeth had followed his parting advice to lock the door. When she did not reply, he tried the latch. The portal swung open, revealing a vacant room.
Wisps of smoke hung in the air, drifting from a nearly extinguished cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed. The sheets curled around the memory of a female body, still warm from her presence, but Elisabeth was gone.
Despite his vigilance, Kismet’s labors had not gone completely unnoticed. The second assassin, still gingerly holding his broken wrist, watched with growing anger as his brother’s lifeless body was unceremoniously dropped into the sea.