“No,” she replied, gritting her teeth against the pain. “But I guess I’ll have to manage.”
No sooner had she spoken than the sharp yelps of the remaining Dobermans, still doggedly chasing them, came rolling down the hill. A moment later, the roar of two separate engines drowned out the barking.
One thing at a time, thought Kismet, as he got in front of Capri and brandished the knife.
He met the canine charge with a swing of his kukri. The broad blade sliced into the skull of the foremost attacker, but as the mortally wounded beast scrambled violently away, the blood-slicked haft of the Nepalese fighting knife was wrestled from Kismet’s grip. The last remaining Doberman launched at his throat an instant later.
He instinctively blocked with his forearm and felt the animal’s powerful jaws close like a vise, the needle sharp teeth sinking to the bone. The momentum of its charge bowled him over. With his free hand, he clawed blindly, searching for the dog’s eyes and ears, but found only its slippery coat.
High above, the ATVs crested the hill and began the headlong descent, illuminating the battle between man and beast with their headlights. The two riders veered in opposite directions, an obvious flanking maneuver against which Kismet had no defense; his hands were full anyway.
The dog’s teeth were savaging the flesh of his forearm, and no amount of punishment could persuade the animal to release its hold. Fiery agony spread from his fingertips to his elbow and only the narcotic effect of adrenaline kept him from taking refuge in unconsciousness. He was dimly aware of Capri, pounding her fists impotently against the dog’s torso, unwittingly exacerbating the injury to his arm by causing the animal to thrash back and forth. Meanwhile, the Colombians had reached the bottom of the ravine and were closing in like pincers from either side.
With a heave, Kismet rolled over, pinning the twisting canine underneath his body. The abrupt move succeeded in loosening the Doberman’s grip on his arm, but that minor respite was incidental to what he had in mind. Reaching back with his left hand, he freed the Glock from its holster and shoved it against the beast’s rib cage. Twin explosions thundered beneath him as the weapon discharged. It was a risky shot; at such close range, the pressure of gas escaping the muzzle would do almost as much damage as the projectile, and there was no telling what might happen if the rounds deflected off bone or the hard ground underneath. The Doberman yelped violently, all thought of fighting gone, and squirmed from beneath him. Blood gushed from ragged wounds on either side of its torso, and even though it retreated with almost supernatural haste, its death was imminent.
Kismet did not pause to savor the victory. He rolled over and fired from a prone position, emptying the automatic in the direction of the ATV approaching from the left. Behind the glare of the Bombardier’s twin headlights, he could distinguish random sparks and knew the driver was returning fire. When the slide on his pistol blew back for the final time, Kismet grabbed Capri’s arm and propelled her away from the point where the off-road vehicles would cross their path. He then stood erect at the exact midpoint between them, as if waiting for the axe to fall.
It was, strangely enough, the safest place he could have chosen. Neither gunman dared fire on him, for fear of shooting his comrade; likewise, if either driver shifted course to run him down, they would risk a head-on collision. It was a classic game of chicken, and Kismet wasn’t about to blink.
With less than twenty yards between them, the man Kismet had shot at, and possibly wounded, suddenly veered away from the impact zone. As if reacting to a telepathic signal, the other driver swung the front end of his Bombardier toward Kismet, but the latter was already moving; as soon as the first driver had relented, Kismet had sprinted after him, maintaining his position between the two. When the ATV cruised by, he leaped at the driver and snared the collar of the man’s shirt. The Colombian was wrenched off his seat, and he and Kismet went tumbling in a tangle of limbs. The ATV, equipped with a safety tether brake, stopped abruptly to form an impromptu barrier between the two men and the remaining vehicle.
Because he was prepared for the impact, Kismet recovered from the bruising crash faster that his adversary and quickly wrestled control of the man’s machine pistol. His foe’s struggles were halted when Kismet clubbed him alongside the head with the captured weapon. Just as quickly, he scrambled closer to the abandoned Bombardier and took aim at the remaining assailant. A burst from the Skorpion knocked the rider backward off his mount, and when the ATV stalled a moment later, the night was plunged once more into silence.
Capri came to his side. Her carefully manicured exterior was gone, replaced by a costume of blood and dirt, and her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the carnage all around. Kismet knelt to retrieve his kukri then took her arm. “Come on.”
Disdaining the ATVs, he led her back up the hill to the motorcycle. As they climbed, he made a cursory examination of his wounds, then turned his attention to his companion. Her suit had borne the brunt of the Doberman’s furry. Beneath the shredded fabric, her wounds amounted to nothing more than bruises and a few abrasions. Kismet’s injuries were a little more severe-there were deep punctures on his forearm that would require medical attention to prevent serious infection-but he had been through worse. The bullet wound to his shoulder was barely a graze, for which he was thankful.
Without the constant threat of pursuit, he was able to pay more attention to the trail, and oriented himself toward the edge of the property. As they closed on the wood line however, the sound of gunfire was once more audible in the distance. He put the bike in neutral and coasted to a stop at the edge of the forest. They found themselves on a short hill overlooking the paved driveway. The battlefield below was surreal in the orange glow of the overhead street lamps.
Turino’s limousine had almost escaped the property, but had been forced to stop by an impromptu barricade of two vans that were now parked where the wrought iron gate had stood. One of the cars that Turino’s wiseguys had used to storm those gates had careened off the road and slammed into a light post; there was no sign of the other. A trail of bodies-some mafia, some cartel-led from the wrecked vehicles to the gatehouse.
Turino and his two bodyguards were still standing, and as Kismet watched, he saw them exchange fire with the two remaining Colombians. Negron’s men, perhaps overconfident in their superior firepower, wasted their ammunition, while their opponents directed their single shots with more care and precision. One of them went down with a gaping hole between his eyes, and his sole remaining comrade scrambled behind the vans.
From their vantage, Kismet and Capri could see both sides of battle. The lone Colombian hugged the corner of the van, obviously looking for help that would never come, while the Don began gesturing decisively, directing one of his men to circle around and take the enemy from the flank. It was a classic infantry assault drill, and as that one man headed for the trees, Turino and the other bodyguard began a steady barrage of gunfire to keep their foe pinned down.
“This will be over soon,” observed Kismet, speaking over his shoulder. If Capri was troubled by watching her grandfather in a life and death struggle, she gave no indication.
Then something changed.
It felt as if all light and warmth had suddenly drained out of the world, or at least everything in close proximity to the gun battle. Kismet suddenly felt very heavy, and for some reason, no matter how he directed his eyes, he found himself looking at a spot just behind the blockade. It was like staring into a black hole in space. There was a crackle like electricity, then Turino’s man was flung backward, past the limousine, to crash into the trees beyond.