But the assassin brought the blade out and up.
Hawk quickly learned that no man can fight age. Nor was the trait of skillful hunting something merely inbred, but something that must be maintained with constant practice. Since the man had aged without the benefit of rehearsal that would have kept his skills honed, the Native American could feel his confidence wane as quickly as his endurance.
Sweat trickled down the Indian’s brow, down his cheeks, the wind doing little to cool his flesh as his heart palpitated in his chest, the rhythm threatening to misfire. And Hawk chastised himself for letting himself go.
Lightning was beginning to flash in strobe fashion, the subsequent roll of thunder shaking the granules beneath his feet. The storm was obviously upon him; a strong wind brewing.
As the sky flared with incredible brightness, the Indian was again blinded. In frustration he removed the NVG and tossed them, relying now on the skill of Apache stealth.
Hunkering low, the wind buffeting him so that his braided ponytail flagged behind him like the whipping mane of a horse, Hawk approached the position where Dog and the assassin converged.
But there was nothing but the footprints of a skirmish, which were quickly disappearing as the wind began to erase away all telltale signs by rolling sand and dust over the tracks.
The Indian then scanned the area with his head on a swivel.
There was nothing but the wind that was beginning to sough like a nocturnal howl, the wail of a banshee.
Above him the moon was being eclipsed by scudding clouds, the thunderheads from the west now beginning to stake their claim.
And then another brilliant flash, another staircase of lightning as the world lit up long enough for Hawk to recognize a shape about fifty meters to the south — that of a man?
The Indian got low and drew a bead. When a subsequent bolt crossed the sky, it provided him with enough of a lighted glimpse to see it was a man in a Ghillie suit.
The Apache toyed with the knife by tossing it from hand to hand, feeling its weight, its heft, its power.
Slowly, he approached the assassin from behind, careful not to attract attention.
Thirty meters away.
His temples throbbed with blood lust while his heart hammered deep inside his chest with the beat of a drum roll.
Twenty meters away.
Hawk turned the knife over in his hand, rolling it until he got a white-knuckled grip on the leather-laced handle.
Ten meters away.
Another stroke of lightning, a dazzling display of inconstant lighting as the Indian closed in, hunkering, the point of the Bowie ready to rent flesh.
Before him stood the man in the Ghillie suit, oblivious to the Indian’s approach.
I am one with the Earth. I am ‘The Ghost.’ At first you see nothing but jungle …
He raised the knife in a fashion to stab and drive the blade through.
Five meters away.
… then the flicker of a shape…
The fabric of the Ghillie suit wavered likes blades of grass in a soft breeze. The assassin had his back to him.
And then the Indian struck, the blade biting deep through flesh, the sound reminiscent of driving a knife through a melon.
… And then you were dead.
The assassin watched from behind the sandstone rise as the Indian approached from the north. He was turning a knife over in his hand, the steel glinting against the rays of a disappearing moon.
Then in a deft move the Indian drove the blade through his intended target.
The assassin did not betray a single emotion as the Bowie found its mark.
Hawk could feel the resistance of the blade driving through flesh again and again and again, the man in the Ghillie suit maintaining his feet.
Impossible!
More stabs, then hacking, the Bowie used like a Roman gladius — the blade slicing, cutting and slashing.
Hawk stood back, observing, his chest heaving and pitching from lack of exercise, his power diminished.
The Ghillie suit fell away, revealing a small saguaro about six feet high, the trunk badly chopped.
Hawk looked at the knife, saw the juice of the cacti on its blade, then turned back to the saguaro, his face registering an uncertainty.
And then he felt an awful stab in the back of his neck — white-hot pain — as the point of a throwing star found its mark, crippling him, the large man falling to the sand as a boneless heap. At first his entire body became a tabernacle of pain, of jabs and darting pins and needles, which was subsequently followed by a wave of fire that swept throughout his entirety.
The Indian gritted his teeth but refused to cry out. In his blurred vision he could see the assassin work against the wind toward him.
The Indian could only move his eyes, but not enough to catch a glimpse of the assassin’s face.
“Did you really think you still had an edge after all these years?” asked the assassin. His voice was smooth and hypnotically melodic. “Is that why you did it alone? To prove to yourself that you could still be ‘The Ghost’ after all these years?”
Hawk grunted, caught himself, and let the pain ride without uttering another groan.
“You’re paralyzed,” the assassin said. His voice was steady and even, a voice without care. “The blade damaged the column bad enough to destroy the nerves. However…” The assassin let his words trail as he produced a silver cylinder. With a quick depression of the button a pick shot forward. “I can mercifully end the pain and send you off to the land of your ancestors. Or,” the assassin leaned closer, “you can spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic for the next twenty years until your body atrophies to a pathetic skeleton.”
Hawk clenched his jaw in response, the disdain apparent.
“Your call, Mr. Hawk. Or, if you like, I will make the decision for you.”
The Indian looked skyward, the repose of his face becoming stoic and unmoving.
“I see,” said the assassin, who then grabbed the Bowie from the sand. “I’ll need this,” he added. And then he placed his hands beneath the large Native American and flipped him onto his stomach. Sweeping the braided ponytail aside, the assassin removed the star and laid the point of the pick against the base of the man’s skull, the tip indenting the flesh. “May the spirits have mercy on your soul,” he said.
And then he punched the weapon home.
Standing in the doorway of Kimball’s room, the assassin held something in his hands. Slowly, as Kimball slept with his chest rising and falling in even rhythm, the man crept silently into the room.
Through the NV monocular he appropriated from Hawk everything appeared green and definable.
Kimball was laying on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms in a manner of self embrace.
The assassin moved closer, his footfalls so silent no one would have known the man was there, even if awake.
Kimball shifted, moving a leg.
And the assassin stilled.
A moment later, when Kimball found his comfort point, the killer moved forward careful not to awaken the sleeping giant, and placed the item in his hands on the night table beside the bed.
Through the NV monocular the assassin watched Kimball, his head tilting from left to right as if studying a living cryptogram.
And then he began to retreat, the assassin backpedaling slowly, softly, always maintaining a keen eye on Kimball as he slept.
And then like a wisp of smoke caught within the current of a breeze, he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pope Pius lay in bed propped up by a myriad of pillows examining documents through glasses that hung precariously on the tip of his nose. Papers lay scattered across his comforter. And the glow of the mid-afternoon sun rained in through the panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows.