What part would they start with first? he found himself wondering as terror gave a boost to his legs. Or would they be as indiscriminate in their butchery as in their taste? It was not a heartening line of thought.
As desperate as they were for protein, they couldn't have much in the way of energy reserves. Nonathlete though he was, if he just kept his head-and his balance-he might yet outrun them. Or encounter a lonely police cruiser, or a city bus, or even a couple of sanitation workers. Cornering, killing, and quartering a lone pedestrian was one thing, but the presence of witnesses might be enough to dissuade them.
Despite his fervent prayers, the way ahead remained empty. Word the Admikhana were on the hunt had, through some unfathomable street gossip osmosis, managed to precede him. Dark, tapering alleys beckoned on both sides of the increasingly narrow street, but they reminded him too much of gaping serpentine gullets for him to
chance seeking sanctuary in any of them. And if he elected to dart into one, and chose wrong, he might quickly find himself cornered in a place where no one would even be able to hear him scream.
Lights. He needed lights, and people, and activity. He needed to cast himself into the protective maelstrom of energy that was city nightlife.
Instead, he rounded one more corner only to run into another man.
The impact shook him twice: physically, from the unexpected bodily contact, and mentally, because as he staggered backward from the collision he recognized the shape he had run into as the man who had been pursuing him and who had caused him to stumble wildly into this insane part of the city in the first place.
What was worse, much worse, was that the man recognized him.
"Taneer Buthlahee." Though the voice was oddly calm, as if reciting one name lifted from a long invisible list, there was no mistaking the satisfaction that underlay the tone. "I've been looking for you for quite a while. It's been an expensive and often frustrating search. But now it's over." A long, lean arm reached for the scientist. Without thought or hesitation, Taneer slapped it away. Always a mild sort, for him such a reaction bordered on the extreme. The explanation was that the response had been entirely instinctive.
A slim specter velcroed to the night, the taller man frowned. "Don't be difficult, now. I'm supposed to return you intact-or at least, coherent. I don't want to hurt you."
When he advanced a second time, his movements were a blur, and not just because they were masked by darkness. The man's other hand grabbed Taneer by the collar of his shirt before he could duck and spun him around. Though slender, the arm that slipped up to lock in place under his chin and across his neck was immovable. Reaching up with both hands, a struggling Taneer was unable to dislodge it. His fingers dragged futilely across flesh that was rippled with veins that bulged like tree roots. He might as well have been trying to untangle himself from one of the steel cables that held up the bridges over the Hooghly. New voices filled the night. Shapes that were female but not especially feminine came barreling around the same corner he had just turned. Taneer's eyes widened at the sight of the homicidal mothers. With extreme terror shooting a burst of adrenaline through his system as forcefully as any pusher, he broke free of his captor's grasp, staggered a few steps, and took off running. Cursing in an especially crude jumble of English, Hindi, and German, Chal turned to corral his quarry, but found his attention diverted.
Never ones to discriminate in their choice of meat, the Admikhana were on him before he had taken another step.
Driven by a combination of frustration and anger at having had his objective snatched away from him, Chal Schneemann fought back. That he did not run like the other man, like most of the men they had pursued, slowed the reactions of the Admilchana somewhat. That he was well armed and clearly schooled in the use of the weapons he carried caused several of them to hesitate further. The brief delay was all a professional like himself needed.
Eyes wild with hunger and bloodlust, one woman brought her long knife around in a wide arc parallel to the street. Gauging the distance with knowledge born of long practice and too much experience, Chal simply leaned back just far enough for the blade to miss him by centimeters. In response, one hand withdrew from an inside breast pocket a small gun not much bigger than his open hand. The shot from it was as silent as it was deadly. The tiny syringet, no bigger than a small nail, struck his attacker in the neck. She looked surprised, brought the knife around for a backhand swing, swallowed hard once or twice, and collapsed as the potent neurotoxin contained in the hypod paralyzed the muscles in her upper body. Unable to breathe, much less to scream, she went down as if axed.
The gun that appeared in the tall man's other hand was larger, less subtle, and almost as fast-acting. The second-closest woman to him was knocked backward by the concussive force of the compact explosive shell that blew apart her sternum and shredded the vital organs within her chest. Unlike the silent syringet, the noise of the explosive shell shattering bone and flesh stunned most of the remaining attackers into momentary immobility. Clearly, the last thing they had expected when they had commenced their hunt of the other man was to encounter resistance in the person of a trained professional.
Only the two most desperate women continued with the assault. Unable to bring a weapon to bear properly, Chal leaped into the air, extended his right leg, spun completely around, and brought the heel of his right foot into contact with a small but ferocious woman's chin. Jawbone cracked, flesh fluttered, and eyes closed as she collapsed. The fourth attacker caught another of the explosive shells just above her left armpit. It blew off her arm.
That was enough for the surviving Admikhana. A potential death from hunger was bad, but at least it was not instantaneous, and might more easily be avoided. They retreated, leaving their broken, bleeding, and unconscious comrades behind. They could return for the meat later, when their unexpectedly adept adversary had moved on.
Hardly pausing to ensure that the fight was over, Chal crossed his hands over his chest and pocketed his weapons. A quick search of the street behind him showed no sign of the man he had almost caught. Expressionless, not even breathing hard, he broke into a steady, space-eating run that was more wolf-lope than runner's stride.
Bevaqufmahila, he groused under his breath as he efficiently scanned both sides of the street as well as the filthy pavement ahead. Stupid women. Why did people always have to interfere in his business? He was fully aware that he had killed three, possibly four of them. Self-defense, though he needed no excuse. The deaths of rabble like that would raise no eyebrows in the media, draw no attention from the local police. Like the rest of the refuse that called the street its home, the carcasses would probably be swept up and unceremoniously dumped in the nearest municipal incinerator. If someone chose to claim a body or two, that was none of his concern. Personally, he felt better knowing that such human trash would not now be able to mate and produce more offspring.
Clearly, the homicidal women had been pursuing the scientist when he had run smack into Chal. The other man's frantic terror and unexpected resistance now had an explanation. Circumstances had resulted in the professional sent to track him down ending up not only extending Buthlahee's freedom but saving his life. Even as he ran on while methodically searching every possible and potential hiding place, the irony of the encounter did not escape Chal.