“And assuming Bechman was right in his conclusions and your … plan works as you hope,” McCracken probed, “what then?”
“Civilization rebuilds, virtually from scratch, with proper guidance this time. So long the object of scorn, persecution, and holocaust, the Jew will be in a position to control all. A world without Arabs, Nazis, and with no one to replace them.”
“Not quite,” McCracken followed, his meaning obvious. “I’ll give you credit for this much, Rasin. I’ve met up with a lot of madmen in my time, but your aims seem more genuine than any of the others. A shame they won’t be realized.”
“Don’t be childish. Even you cannot change the inevitable now.” Yet the expression on Blaine’s face indicated assurance and determination. Rasin was suddenly unnerved. “The clothes you’re wearing, I know those clothes.…”
“These? Happened to pick them up at the end of a certain tunnel the Indian and I used to get in here. Figured they had been left there for a number of Arab gentlemen to aid in their escape from the area.”
“No! You’re bluffing!”
Blaine showed the miniature detonator he had pulled from his pocket thirty seconds before. “I figure they’ll be well into the tunnel by now. Don’t worry, I was sure to place my plastic explosives at key structural stress points. Assure an even and fair collapse that way.”
“You can’t press it! You can’t!”
“Drop your gun, Rasin.”
“No! … Lace, stop him!”
The leather-clad woman giant lunged back through the double doors at the same time Blaine turned toward them. The gun he had been forced to discard was only a yard away. He dropped for it as she whirled a chain from her belt in his direction.
It can’t be on target. She had no time to aim….
Blaine looked away from the blur, hand going for the pistol. The ease of reaching it surprised him, for he didn’t realize that Lace’s intended target was his other hand, the one holding the detonator. He felt the gnarled edges of the link dig into his wrist, powerless to maintain his grasp of the detonator against the pain. It flew outward, and Blaine felt his wrist explode in fiery agony as he was yanked away. He had the pistol briefly, but the vicious thrust of Lace’s motion stripped it from him.
Stunned, McCracken awaited certain death as he watched Rasin bring the machine gun up to fire. Suddenly a second huge shape charged through the open double doors. Johnny Wareagle’s staff preceded him and smacked hard into Rasin’s ribs, which caused his first burst of fire to stitch a jagged design in the far wall.
Instantly Lace released her grip on the chain digging into McCracken and sped inside the second strike, which Wareagle had aimed for her. The miss carried Johnny sufficiently off balance for the huge woman to pound a shoulder into him with force sufficient to propel both of them through the door into the corridor.
Blaine saw Rasin staggering, machine gun dangling from the shoulder strap supporting it. He knew the madman was struggling to right it on him again and just as fast made the decision to go for the detonator and not the pistol. He couldn’t take a chance that the Arab delegates carrying the Gamma vials would make it out of the tunnel while he and Rasin were fighting. He dove headlong and slid off the carpet onto an exposed portion of the hardwood floor to where the detonator had come to a rest. His outstretched hand just managed to find the red button when Rasin’s desperate burst coughed fragments of wood everywhere around him. He was rolling to avoid the next burst when the floor in the hall began to shake, the tunnel underlying the royal palace caving in on itself under the force of the blasts. The explosion blew out a number of windows in the library, turning the glass into flying shards that fell over a prostrate McCracken and then slid harmlessly to the floor.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Rasin’s scream barely preceded the rat-tat-tat of his machine gun fire aimed at the downed figure of McCracken. But Blaine was already in motion away from it, rolling over the shattered glass that had coated him toward the cover promised by the long shelves of books.
Wareagle still felt the battle was his to win. In close, the advantage of his staff was negated, but there was strength to consider at this proximity, and the woman’s was no match for his. Strangely, the thought that he was battling a woman never crossed his mind. His feelings revealed to him a spirit as black on the inside as her leather garb was on the outside.
Johnny felt his back smash up against the wall and drove his knee hard into the rippling muscles of the woman’s abdomen. The move drove her from him and started to double her over; the Indian’s next intention was to dip behind and loop the staff round her throat to crush it.
He saw the scimitar sweep up at him only after he had committed himself to the move. A heavy sword with a sharply angled edge, it could be wielded accurately only by the strongest of warriors. He managed to backpedal at the last moment, sliding enough to the side to allow him to block the sword with his staff. The heavy blade dug into the wood but couldn’t cut all the way through.
Lace was quick to pull it free and send the scimitar at him a second time in roundhouse fashion. But Wareagle anticipated the move perfectly and countered by darting to the innermost point of the strike. This allowed him to accept the blow at its weakest with the lower end of the staff while he crashed its upper end downward against the woman’s face.
Lace wailed in agony, her cheekbone shattered. Wareagle went for the finish, a thrust to the throat while she was dazed. But Lace managed to duck under the move and used a sweep kick to take out Johnny’s left knee. He went down, maintaining the presence of mind to keep his grip on the staff, so when she charged at him, snarling, wielding the scimitar in a downward blow, he was ready.
He jammed the staff up to meet the blow and felt his elbows lock tight an instant before the clash came. This time the wood split on impact, leaving Johnny with a segment in either hand. Lace wasted no time and swung the scimitar round again.
If he had tried to regain his feet, death would have been the inevitable result. But Johnny did the last thing expected of him by remaining on his knees and actually closing into the blow while he jammed the more jagged piece of the staff hard against the woman’s blade-wielding wrist.
Lace screamed again, the sound still piercing Johnny’s ears when he slid behind her and lashed the hard wood into her kidney through the padding of her leather jacket. Impact separated him from the more brittle portions of the staff, and he succeeded in smashing the woman’s already-damaged face straight into the wall. She spun around with the left side of her mouth curling up from the bulging swell of her broken cheek. Her leather pants were tight enough to let Johnny see the rippling tension in her leg muscles as she came forward, stalking him, clip-clopping on her boots and waving the scimitar through the air.
It was instantly clear to Wareagle that those high-heeled boots were anything but ideal for rapid motions, and he seized this for his next strategy. She came at him when he expected her to — as he was climbing back to his feet. She came at him with the left side of her face swollen twice the size of her right.
Johnny stopped rising, went down all the way to the floor, and swept the staff half he still held back at her as she passed. The blow broke the heel off her right boot. But Lace didn’t realize it until she planted to steady her next swing. With her heel gone, her leg buckled. She went down and Wareagle spun over her, brandishing the jagged staff half aloft, making ready to plunge it into her.