In that moment of sublime pandemonium, Kismet reckoned his chances of escape were about even. Despite the overwhelming force of numbers, the crowd was a cumbersome entity, limited by the strength and speed of its leading edge. Those in the middle had to rely on guidance from their comrades and sometimes the lines of communication were slow and unreliable. The seeds of a plan sprouted as he closed in on the skirmish line. All he had to do was get past them and he would have the advantage.
At the moment of contact, he attempted to vault over the cowering defenders. His focus was narrowed to the three of four men who actually had a chance of stopping him. One man, older than his companions and more wary, was practically on his hands and knees. Kismet leaped over the man’s bent back, and was a step closer to freedom.
Suddenly his world spun around. Instead of open sky, he found himself staring at the desert floor and before he could even begin to comprehend what had happened, the wind was driven from his lungs as his torso slammed into the ground. Someone, perhaps the old man, had snared his ankle, ripping him out of the air in mid-leap.
The protest marchers swarmed over him like warrior ants, tearing blindly at his extremities. The gun discharged several times, although he made no deliberate effort to pull the trigger, and cries of pain and rage went up from the dog pile. The Glock was torn from his fingers a moment later, even as blows began raining down upon him.
In that frantic moment, adrenaline took over. The instinctive need to survive — to flee and fight — directed his hands and feet in a way that his conscious mind could not fathom. He began to kick and punch and gouge, twisting like a dynamo, inflicting close-quarters damage that slowly accumulated to the point where his attackers were forced back, if only to arm’s length. As they fell away, Kismet’s fingers closed on the haft of his kukri and he wrenched it free from its scabbard, waving it menacingly. The large steel blade intimidated the mob in a way his firearm could not. It held promise of slashing wounds and lost limbs, rather than the almost intangible threat of a bullet hole.
There was blood on the sand. Some of it was his, but at least two of the men had suffered gunshot wounds and lay motionless on the ground. Others bore the marks of Kismet’s adrenaline fueled counterattack with bloody noses and split lips, but he knew that whatever traumas he had managed to inflict were reflected and magnified on his own body. Rivulets of warm fluid were dripping from his chin, and somehow he knew it wasn’t perspiration.
He feinted experimentally with the kukri, driving once more at what he perceived to be the weakest point. As he did, one youth broke toward him, screaming a war cry. Kismet whirled to face him, slashed blindly and the blade found flesh. There was a crunch of steel on bone as the heavy knife lopped off a hand, and the battle yell became a howl of agony.
Kismet did not waste time surveying the damage. The youth had broken ranks to attack him, leaving a hole in the perimeter of the assault. Still slashing the kukri before him, he charged toward the gap. A few brave fingers snagged his clothing as he pushed through, but none were able to stop him. In a moment he was through.
As the mob began to realize that their prey had eluded the pinchers and was now escaping, their rage grew to blinding proportions. Men pushed forward, heedless of those ahead of them, and dozens were crushed or trampled in the surge. The crowd seemed to fragment beyond that point, with individuals breaking loose and sprinting after Kismet, while most remained caught in the snarl. Notwithstanding this, their strength of numbers remained.
Kismet wove through the obstacles of the construction site, more intent on staying in motion than reaching any particular goal. The task before him seemed overwhelming; he had to find refuge in an unfamiliar city where virtually everyone wanted him dead.
For a moment, he thought about trying to cross back through the rail yard in order to rendezvous with Buttrick and his soldiers. He immediately dismissed that idea.All it would accomplish would be to bring the rage of the masses down on those men as well. Instead he stayed on a straight course, veering left or right only when an obstacle presented itself.
He ducked his head reflexively when he heard the familiar crack of his own gun being discharged. The distinctive sound of the nine-millimeter pistol repeated two more times, but none of the rounds found their mark, and after the third concussion, the gun fell silent. It was only a momentary reprieve.Kismet knew there were other guns among the crowd.
He reached the edge of the construction site, slipped through an inexplicable stand of trees, and once more onto the barren brown desert floor. The kukri in his right fist seemed like an anchor, weighing him down and making each step that much harder, but the crimson stain on its edge was compelling testimony to its usefulness. Besides, the thought of throwing it away was abhorrent. He had once believed he would die with the blade in his hand; now it seemed another such opportunity for that fate had arrived.
He dared not look back. There was no need to verify the fact that mob was at his heels. He was more concerned about what lay directly ahead — a lot of nothing. There was nowhere to hide, no safe place where he would be granted refuge. This was an endurance race, and he would lose only when he could run no more.
So he ran.
Nothing else existed but to keep moving. Time was measured by the pounding of his heart in his ears, synchronized to the rhythm of his footsteps — four strides per beat. He could hear nothing else. His field of vision likewise was narrowing, focusing in on a fixed object: a high-rise structure directly ahead and perhaps five kilometers in the distance. He had no idea what the building was and there was no way he would ever reach it, but it was something tangible that he could move toward. He was barely aware of the darkness closing in at the edge of his vision.
The crowd could not match his pace. Their collective motivation to rend his limbs was not as fierce as his will to survive. Barefoot and exhausted from the long march, many were content to fade into the background, allowing their brothers and neighbors the thrill of the kill. A few score however surged ahead, breaking away from the mob and sprinting with all their might after the fleeing figure. Unconsciously, the men separated into two packs, forming wedges behind the fastest runners. As they narrowed the gap, each leader angled away from the distinctive pattern of Kismet’s footprints, swerving into a parallel course that would enable them to cut off and overwhelm him. Through the pounding and the darkness, he almost failed to notice.
One young man, wielding a rudimentary carving knife whetted so frequently that it was a mere sliver of steel, charged prematurely. He dived at an angle, the wooden grips of the knife squeezed tight in his right fist, and stabbed at the center of Kismet’s back. The blade snagged in the already ragged fabric, and as he felt the first twinge of pain, Kismet twisted away. The attack had thrown the running youth off balance, and as the knife was torn from his grip, he sprawled forward onto the sand. The man closest behind tried to leap over his fallen comrade but mistimed his jump, tripping on an outstretched leg and likewise ending up prone on the desert floor.
Aware now that his enemies were within striking distance, Kismet slashed back blindly with the kukri, sweeping the blade like a scythe in order to clear the area directly to his right. He then made a sharp turn in that direction, creating further confusion among his pursuers and the left-hand wedge inadvertently collided with the other group in their eagerness to adjust course. Before they could orient on his new vector, Kismet wove back in the other direction.