The reptile was a writhing mass of power, stronger than any man he had ever fought. To make matters worse, he had no leverage in the water. It took all his strength to hang on as the animal thrashed, trying to dislodge him. The vestigial legs, which could propel the creature through the water with unbelievable speed, began clawing at him. The raised, scaly ridges on the alligator's back scraped against his chest as the beast twisted completely around in his grasp. It used its immensely powerful tail to throw itself, and its human attacker, from side to side, slamming Kismet against the lake’s marshy bottom. Kismet could do nothing but hold on.
Abruptly, the creature stopped fighting him and instead started swimming for open water. Before Kismet knew what was happening, the alligator rolled over and dove for the lake bottom. He struggled for several breathless seconds before realizing that the creature was deliberately trying to drown him.
He didn’t dare let go, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure what to do. He loosed one arm from around its neck and began pounding at its pale gullet and underbelly, trying to drive it back to the surface. His blows were slowed by the water and bounced ineffectively off the tough scales of the reptile. The alligator continued sweeping its tail, swimming further out into the lake where Kismet would have no chance at all. He felt a pressure change in his ears; the beast was diving, taking him deeper, away from life sustaining oxygen.
He kept hammering his fist against the creature’s scaly throat, while with his left arm he kept its mighty jaws pinned shut. The gator seemed impervious to his attack, and was patiently waiting for him to give up and die; it had the luxury of time on its side.
Kismet’s lungs were on fire. He shook with involuntary spasms as he fought the impulse to inhale. He had to let go…he had to get to the surface.
He loosed his left arm and felt the monster twist away, its mouth falling open. The creature, perhaps believing that its prey had at last succumbed, stopped thrashing and twisted around to take him in its deadly jaws.
But Kismet hadn’t given up. He found the hilt of his kukri, and despite the fact that water slowed his movements, thrust the boomerang-shaped blade into its pale belly. The thick hide nearly stopped the knife; only its tip penetrated, but then Kismet got his free hand on the hilt and jammed it deeper, twisting as it penetrated.
The alligator tried to squirm away, but succeeded only in disemboweling itself. Something blunt and hard — the mortally wounded creature’s thrashing tail — struck Kismet in the back, forcing the last breath from his agonized lungs. The primal need to breathe overruled all other concerns, and kicking his legs, he broke the surface an excruciating three seconds later, inhaling as much water spray as air.
The gator had dragged him about thirty feet from the shore. He could just make out Higgins and Annie, pinned down near the edge of the woods by the relentless gunfire. Wary of encountering more gators and fully aware that even if he reached his friends there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do, Kismet stretched out his arms and started swimming back to shore.
As he reached the swamp at the edge of the lake, there was a pause in the fusillade. Several seconds passed without a shot being fired; it was as if the attacking gunmen had all emptied their guns at the same moment. In the midst of the eerie quiet, Kismet rose and scrambled toward his friends. He dropped to the ground when the barrage started up again and crawled the rest of the way to Annie. He saw that she was still clutching the Beretta he had earlier dropped.
“Are you all right?” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the constant thunder of gunfire.
Annie nodded, but said nothing.
“Hope you’ve got a plan, mate!” Higgins shouted.
Kismet didn't.
“This is no good, Nick! We’ve been here before. You know how it ends.”
Higgins' defeatism fanned a spark of rage in Kismet, and before he even knew what he was doing, he ripped the gun from his companion's grasp. “If that's how you feel, then you might as well let me use this.”
Higgins gaped at him. Darkness clouded his face; a mixture of embarrassment and seething rage that had nothing to do with the danger they were facing.
Somehow, Kismet couldn’t bring himself to worry about the other man’s hurt feelings. If they survived the next five minutes, there’d be time to make nice. Shouldering the rifle, he crawled up the side of the mound and risked a quick peek into the woods beyond.
A round hit near his head, spitting a spray of dirt at him and forcing him back down, but in that moment, he glimpsed a target — a man wearing woodland camouflage pants and a gray T-shirt — resting in the lowest limbs of a tree, about two hundred feet away on the other side of the mound. He readied the rifle, and this time when he popped into view again, it took him less than a second to find the man in the reticle of the Kimber’s scope and pull the trigger. He was back down, behind cover, before the sniper’s lifeless body hit the ground.
He racked the bolt, ejecting the spent casing, and advancing another round into the firing chamber. The magazine held only five rounds, and he had no idea how many Higgins had already used. Annie had his Beretta, with a fifteen round magazine…maybe…if they made every shot count…
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Higgins. “I've got an idea—”
“A little late for that!” growled Kismet, pushing him away. Higgins, thrown off balance by the push, nearly fell back down the slope. As he went down, he continued shouting for Kismet to listen, but Kismet paid no heed.
“When I give the word, we’re going to go right down the middle,” he said, directing his words mostly at Annie. “Right down their throats!”
Kismet didn’t wait for either of them to acknowledge. It was a desperate gamble, and survival was unlikely in any case, but their chances would only diminish with hesitation. “On three…
“One,” He took a breath, thinking about how he was going to do this. Come up, take a shot, move…”Two.”
Annie shouted something unintelligible but he was too focused on the task at hand to even notice. “Three!”
He started to rise, but then a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder, pulled him back and spun him around. It was Higgins.
His old mate’s face was twisted into a mask of bitter determination, but that was not what stoppered Kismet before he could give voice to his own ire. Rather, it was the Beretta in Higgins’ right hand, the business end pointing at a spot right between Kismet’s eyes, that stopped him cold. Instead of rage, Kismet’s tone was unnaturally subdued. “What the hell, Al?”
“Drop the gun,” Higgins ordered.
“Dad!” Annie gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Drop the gun,” he repeated, his voice almost quavering. “We're surrendering.”
“Like hell we are,” Kismet answered, his tone unchanged.
Higgins drew back a step, as if sensing that Kismet might try to make a grab for the pistol, and thumbed back the hammer. “I'm serious, Nick.”
As his initial ire cooled, Kismet realized that Higgins was serious. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill Kismet in order to save his daughter. With a bitter snarl, he lowered the rifle. “You don’t think they’ll just let us walk away, do you?”
Higgins took the Kimber from Kismet’s loose grip and tossed it to his daughter. “Annie girl, find a rag or something, and tie it the end of the barrel. Run up the white flag.”
As if aware of the drama being played out by the three, the shooters in the forest ceased their assault. Higgins took the makeshift truce flag from his daughter and waved it in the air. “Leeds, are you listening?” he shouted in the sudden stillness. “You once asked me to work for you, help you find it before Kismet. Well, I’ll take that deal now.”