‘Don’t.’ She reached a hand towards him tearfully. ‘I don’t regret this. This awakening. It’s what I wanted, always. I’m only sorry—’
‘I’m the one who’s sorry,’ Jaeger cut in.
‘No, no,’ she countered, shaking her head vigorously. ‘There’s no time. Not for apologies. Regrets. The clock’s ticking. No time for anything but to join us. No time—’
Her words were choked off as a huge, hulking figure burst out of the shadows and without a word of warning slammed a massive fist against the side of her head. She catapulted into the darkness, hitting the wall with a horrific thud, slumping down in a heap at its base.
‘That shut the bitch up,’ her assailant snarled.
Jaeger had recognised him even before he spoke. Steve Jones, his nemesis. Now to finish this. As Jones tried to duck back into cover, Jaeger pulled his trigger.
Click.
He tried again. Click.
His P228 had misfired.
He dived for cover even as Jones opened fire. Rounds hammered into the concrete pillar, and for an instant Jaeger felt a jabbing stab of pain in his left thigh.
Shit, he’d been hit. It felt like a flesh wound, but even so, he could sense warm liquid oozing down his leg.
Hugging the pillar, he checked the topside of his pistol. There was nothing stuck in the ejector port, so maybe the magazine was jammed. The P228 was normally bulletproof reliable, but their weapons had taken a hammering as they’d charged through the dirty floodwaters.
Jones stepped more fully into the corridor now, weapon levelled in Jaeger’s direction. ‘Dead man’s click or fucking stoppage,’ he grated, ‘doesn’t make a fat lot of difference when faced with this.’ He brandished his weapon, a Type 79 machine gun. ‘Long time no see, Jaeger. And by the way, welcome to hell.’
Jaeger didn’t answer. Injured, with his gun jammed and no spare mags remaining, he was in a whole world of trouble right now.
‘Come here seeking your little wifey, did you?’ Jones sneered. ‘Let you in on a secret: we ruined her.’
He fired again. Rounds tore chunks of masonry off the wall, ripping into the pillar. Hands working feverishly, Jaeger slipped the magazine off the pistol, but it still wouldn’t unjam.
‘Well, you’ve seen her,’ Jones sneered. ‘Your loyal wife? Somehow I don’t think so.’
He reached to the floor and dragged Ruth forward. She looked a mess. Barely conscious. Jaeger’s heart skipped a beat as Jones yanked on her hair, bringing her upright.
Was Jaeger imagining it, or did he see her lips move, mouthing: I’m sorry.
‘Let her go,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll fight you any which way you choose, but let her go.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ Jones snarled, letting Ruth’s head drop with a sickening thump. ‘I’ll offer you a chance. More than you ever did for me on selection. I put down my Type 79; you put down your spud gun. We fight. No shooters. We end it. Here.’
Jaeger figured he had no option: he’d have to kill Jones first, before he could go to his wife’s aid. He slid his pistol out into the corridor, the metal making a rasping noise on the rough concrete floor.
‘Kick it away,’ Jones barked, as he menaced Jaeger with his weapon.
Jaeger did as he was told.
‘Good boy.’
Jones paused. He gripped his weapon and brought it around, slamming the butt into Ruth’s head, before spinning it back, barrel pointed directly at Jaeger once more.
‘Now we’re ready. Ready to see what you’re made of, Jaeger, you fucking pussy.’
‘You’re dead,’ Jaeger whispered under his breath. ‘This very day, you die.’
87
Jones lowered his machine gun to the floor and booted it into the shadows.
Jaeger stepped further into the open. As he did so, he felt an excruciating pain shoot through his leg. He was wounded and facing an uninjured Jones: not the best place to be. But his burning hatred of the man, plus the rage that was surging through him, had to give him an edge.
The two figures approached each other warily. Jones was a good six foot four, and with all the performance-enhancing drugs he used, he was as muscle-bound as Jaeger remembered. He almost didn’t look human.
Jaeger had always been faster, but with an injured leg, there was no telling. He went into a combat stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, toes slightly turned inwards, knees slightly bent, arms up and out in front of his face, ready to lash blows.
It was then that Jones did something utterly unexpected. Reaching down to his thigh, he drew out a blade. What had once been Narov’s commando knife – all seven inches of tapered, razor-sharp steel – was now gripped in his hand.
‘Recognise this?’ He smiled evilly. ‘I said no shooters. I didn’t mention blades. I call it the Shark Killer. Though it’s just as good for disembowelling humans. Take a look at what I did to Old Man Miles.’
Jaeger didn’t reply. His entire focus was on the coming fight.
They circled each other like big cats, ready to pounce. From his martial arts training, Jaeger knew that so often the key to such a fight was to strike first and strike hard. The man who hesitated was dead.
He made his move – and it was fast, very fast.
He drove the outside edge of his right boot low and hard into the side of Jones’s knee.
Jones tried to whip his leg back to avoid the blow. But it was a case of simple cause and effect; the attacker will always have a speed advantage. Jaeger’s kick made partial contact. It wasn’t the devastating strike that he’d hoped for; no crippling crunch of bone. But it was a start.
Jones backed away, regaining his balance, just as Jaeger swung the side of his right hand hard into his bull-like neck. Again, it was a glancing blow, but it opened the door for the next move. A split second later, he drove his left fist straight out like a battering ram, smashing into Jones’s windpipe with devastating force.
Jones’s shaven head whipped backwards violently, then rebounded forward from the impact of the killer strike.
The fight had lasted barely seconds. But as Jaeger watched Jones’s massive form crumple to the floor, he felt a stab of sheer agony shooting through his good leg, which gave way beneath him. Even as he had collapsed, Steve Jones had struck Jaeger a savage blow with the knife.
Jaeger found himself sprawled in a heap, his knifed leg a mass of spurting blood. He started to crawl, trying to drag his body to a safe place.
Behind him, Jones was starting to come round. Jaeger heard a voice spitting out the words. ‘Was I too quick? Didn’t see the blade? Oh yeah! I’m going to enjoy every last minute of this.’
Jones sheathed his bloodied knife and staggered to his feet, towering over Jaeger’s prone form. ‘I have wanted this for so long,’ he sneered. ‘I am going to kick your head until what little brains you have are smeared across the walls.’
He moved to give himself room for the run-up. ‘I’m gonna beat you to the very brink of death. But you ain’t gonna die. Not yet. Not today. Oh no. This is far too personal… I’m gonna keep you alive. You know why? So you can watch your family fry.’
Jaeger was hunched against the wall, bloodied and helpless before the towering figure of his assailant.
‘You think that by hitting this place you can stop us?’ Jones scoffed. ‘We’re unstoppable. And we’re coming for the Jaeger clan like you’d never imagined possible!’
As Jones braced himself to attack, Jaeger felt something digging into the small of his back. Suddenly he remembered: the Chinese QSZ-92 – the pistol that he’d taken from Ustanov.