“Feckin’ pussy man,” he grated. “How ‘bout throwing a real punch?”
A haymaker missed Drake by millimeters. Drake caught the arm and bent it until it snapped. The expected scream didn’t come, only a hiss like steam venting and then a new attack. Malachi swung around with his good hand, a shard of timber clasped between thumb and first finger. Drake saw it coming, threw an arm up to block and felt it rip through his jacket, shirt and skin. The point sank deep enough so that the improvised weapon stuck. Malachi fell away, good hands scrabbling for another deadly fragment. Drake plucked the timber away then threw himself at Malachi’s chest, feet first. The blow smashed the air from him. Gasping, he threw gathered debris at Drake, temporarily blinding him, then plucked a bouncing trash can from the air. Catching it he swung it at Drake’s head and though it was plastic the Yorkshireman still saw stars.
Stepping away, taking stock, still squinting through drifting particles of demolished yacht, he eyed Malachi.
“Never been good at givin’ up.” The Irishman inhaled deeply. “Not us. We’ll die and then take yer to Hell with us.”
“Been there,” Drake said. “Done it. Even got the bloody T-shirt, Hawaiian print. Didn’t like it.”
When his opponent scooped up another, even more-wicked looking splinter, Drake jumped in, launching several incapacitating blows, but still Malachi fought and tried to rise despite wrenching his broken arm still further. The Yorkshireman then snapped the other one. What these guys lacked in skill they sure made up for in madness and tenacity. Lifting his foot, he brought a polished Valentino down on Malachi’s neck, ending the fight.
Alicia jabbed and punched at Dudley, allowing him to speak before striking, watching his moves and awaiting her moment. She could tell he was wary, having lost to her before.
“Damn it, bitch. When are yer gonna lie down and die?”
“Not whilst I’ve got legs and can keep moving ‘em forward, boy. Not whilst there’s a horizon in front of me.”
“Then I’ll take it away. I’ll feckin’ kill yer.”
Alicia sidestepped his lunge, delivering a heavy blow to his temple. “Not a chance. It’s easy to take you down, Dudley. Just takes a slap to the nutsack.”
She feigned a kick, following it in with a body barge, slamming her elbow as hard as she could into his chin. Dudley shook it off, a rabies-infested mad dog, and tried to bite her. Alicia spun him around and threw him over the fallen body of his brother, Malachi. Dudley hit the causeway, head cracking against the concrete. To his right lay a thick timber spar. He snapped back to his feet in a single movement, waving the spar around his head and screaming. Alicia ducked it twice, jabbing hard both times, then broke it in half. Still the remaining piece looked deadly and hurt when Dudley breached her defenses and smashed it against her ribs. Alicia flinched, but never stopped moving.
Dudley riled and insulted her, dropping the spar and plucking a floating wooden dagger out of the air. He took a moment to wipe his brow, fragments and shavings falling from his hair. Alicia felt yacht ruins landing on her own head and shoulders, clinging to her spoiled golden dress, and brushed what she could away. She found a dagger of her own and when Dudley lunged with his she deflected it away and came up under his belly with the three-inch shard, burying it deep.
The Irishman flinched, eyes suddenly wide as he fell away. Staggering, he caught himself, back to snarling already and ignored the wound. Alicia sidestepped to his right.
She heard Dahl telling Hibiki he looked tired out and to take a break as he dealt with McLain and Byram. Somewhere along the journey Dahl had heard that McLain liked to hurt security guards and that knowledge was now taking a heavy toll on McLain’s limbs. The last of the 27-Club were falling to pieces.
“You wanna die at twenty seven?” Alicia asked the straining Dudley. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
The Irishman came at her, snarling, all in for the last skirmish. He caught her around the waist, lifted and carried her backward several feet before her elbows jabbed down hard into his shoulders, staggering him still further. She skipped away, careful not to fall off the causeway and into the rolling harbor waters. He leaned over, swaying, blood pouring from many wounds, but he would not go down.
“Yer gonna have to kill me, bitch.”
“Y’know what?” She eyed him dangerously. “That just ain’t a problem for me.”
He lunged, stance wrong, arms swinging, and she jabbed at his eyes and throat, then his ribs, finishing him with a sharp kick to the nose. Prone on the floor, he coughed blood, still jabbering, still crazy.
Alicia turned away, ignoring the blather.
As the last vestiges of the explosion floated down to earth his scrabbling hands found one that had landed earlier. A thick piece of metal railing, it was heavy, long and jagged — a deadly spear. Without thinking for one moment, the Irishman summoned every last ounce of strength, twisted his broken body and stabbed upward toward her lower spine.
Alicia never saw it coming. Her eyes were on Drake, fixed, perhaps even already wondering where she might go next. The fatal spear punched through the air, powered by the last strength of a madman. Alicia saw Drake react, then reach around her…
He grabbed the spear with his hand and arrested its thrust only a centimeter from her body.
Dudley screamed and wrenched at the weapon, but to no avail. Drake held on, gripping it tightly and holding Dudley’s eyes with his own. After a few seconds he pulled it free, then reversed it and plunged it down into the man’s chest.
The Irishman breathed his last.
Alicia stared at Drake, knowing full well how close she had come. “Y’know what?” she said. “Here’s a slogan for you — no guns were used in the harming of these murderers.”
“Aye, love. I know.”
“Thank you for my life.”
“Any time. You know you’re worth it.”
Dahl sauntered up. “Nice workout.” He nodded the way they’d come, all the way to the shadow of the hotel where they’d started.
“Komodo,” Alicia breathed, a break in her voice.
The pall of misery redressed them. The blackest of shadows hung back there, a dark, endless gloom that would never be pierced.
Drake had never been more aware of a silent comms.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
In the aftermath, Drake found the Z-box in the motor launch whilst Dahl and the others trussed up the surviving Irishmen, an insane, spirited gift for the Hong Kong authorities. It was true the 27-Club had crimes to answer for back in the States, but the team were realistic enough to know they would never get them out of the country — or even away from the yacht club — unseen. It was a quick job, they had to be out of the area before the police arrived, and their legs were aching as if they’d all run a marathon, but slipping along in the shadows had never been a problem for a Special Forces team. No words were exchanged as they retraced their steps back to the alleyway where their comrade had fallen.
And met their friends, gathered around the body.
“He goes home,” Hayden said. “Whatever the cost.”
Drake took his turn beside the body, remembering all that Komodo had gone through and what he’d done not only for his country and the team, but for Karin and himself too. They’d first met the man back when the Blood King was discovering the gates of hell, such a long time ago now. And though they faced danger every day, ate it for breakfast and then went even harder into lunch, the loss of a true comrade was always surprising, always soul-destroying and never simple.