"You're the one with the problem, Kendry. No matter what you do to me, you're not getting out of this valley alive."
"Listen to me," Veil said in a low voice as he increased the pressure of his gun against the man's spine. "You've got an enemy agent here—and a top-ranking one. He's probably working for the Russians, but I can't be sure."
"You're full of shit, Kendry. You're the enemy agent. And it makes me sick to my stomach to hear you call yourself an American. You're a traitor."
"Who's really in charge of this place?"
The Mamba moved his head slightly. Veil pressed gun against bone sharply, and the man stiffened. "Easy," the Mamba whispered. "I haven't tried anything."
"Don't. Answer my question. It's harmless enough; as you say, I'm not going anywhere."
"It's a stupid question, because you know the answer."
"I've got a flash for you, pal. I think Parker's number two around here. Think about it. Have you ever had any indication that Parker takes orders from someone else? I mean, someone here, someone who may not be in uniform."
"Fuck you, traitor. You're either out of your mind or fishing for something else; either way, I'm not going to answer any more questions."
"Get up," Veil said, rising to his feet and backing away slightly. "Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly."
"Are you going to kill me?" the Mamba asked in a neutral tone as he rose and turned.
"I don't think so; not as long as you continue to behave yourself."
The man's eyes narrowed. "I can't believe that you took out Dan in a fair fight, Kendry. I really wish I could get a shot at you myself."
"Not today, pal," Veil replied laconically. "I doubt that I'd be much of a match for a big, young bull like you. My guest accommodations here left a little to be desired, as you may have noticed. I'm still a little shaky. Besides, I'm pushing forty. Why would you want to beat up on an old man?" Veil paused, smiled thinly, then tossed his revolver to the Mamba. "Merry Christmas."
The startled Mamba snatched the .38 out of the air, immediately stepped forward, and pressed the bore squarely against Veil's forehead. His green eyes gleamed. "Want to test my reflexes, Kendry?"
"No."
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You just signed your own death warrant."
"I sincerely hope not. I'm feeling generous, and I gave you my gun as a gesture of goodwill. Now I'm your prisoner. Take me to your leader."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
Veil sighed. "I want you to take me to Parker, pal—with as little fuss and as quickly as you can, if you don't mind. I'd just as soon nobody saw us."
"Parker's dead."
Veil felt a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach that had nothing to do with the drug he had been taking. His enemy was in an even bigger hurry than he'd thought, and his own plan was rapidly falling apart. "Shit," he said quietly. "When?"
"A half hour after you escaped. You should know; you killed him."
"Smell the barrel of that gun. It hasn't been fired in the past twenty-four hours."
"You killed Colonel Parker with his own gun. And what the fuck am I doing standing here talking to you? Turn around and start walking, Kendry. Hands clasped behind your head."
Veil remained still, chafing at the knowledge that he'd lost a day. "Why would I give you my gun if I'd killed Parker?"
"Because you're a smart-ass who isn't half as clever as he thinks he is. Once you got out of the cage and killed the Colonel, you realized that you couldn't get out of the compound on your own. Maybe you thought you'd bluff your way out."
"You do have to get me out," Veil said evenly, fighting against the panic he felt welling in him. There was just no way to rush what he had to do. "And you have to do it quickly. Every minute we stand here means that other lives are in danger. It also means that the man you really want is probably putting more distance between us."
"You must take me for a fool."
Veil took three quick steps backward; at each step the firing pin of his .38 fell on an empty chamber. The Mamba cursed and threw the revolver away.
"I mentioned that I was feeling generous," Veil said as he took the knotted strap he had made from the leather pouch and drawstring out of his breast pocket. "I didn't say suicidal."
The Mamba instantly went into a fighting stance, forming the fingers of his left hand into a claw that was thrust out at eye level. The right hand flicked to a hidden scabbard behind his neck and came away gripping a large Bowie knife. Then he began to move, circling Veil, varying his speed, knife hand and empty hand weaving intricate, hypnotic patterns in the air less than two feet from Veil's face.
Veil, who had spent ten years learning classic kata and another ten unlearning them, knew pretty much what to expect from the other man. He leaned back slightly from the darting blade but remained relaxed, the leather strap dangling from his right hand. He fixed his gaze on the Mamba's waist and hips, forecasters of movement, and allowed his peripheral vision to track the swirling movement of the knife; any sudden lunge or extension of the knife hand would be signaled a fraction of a second beforehand by a movement of the hips.
First came a feint with the knife, which Veil ignored, then a sidekick, which was parried. He did not try to counterpunch or kick; the knife in the Mamba's hand was too dangerous for that, allowing no margin of error.
Veil had no doubt that the Mamba's master was well versed in many schools of combat, but the Mamba was simply too young to have gone much beyond becoming master of one style, which in this case was Japanese. The Mamba was most likely unfamiliar with Thai "scarf" fighting, with which a master could successfully defend himself against an armed attacker, in the meantime blinding or strangling his opponent, using no more than a simple handkerchief which he had wetted with his own saliva. And a whip, Veil thought, was considerably more deadly than a handkerchief.
A slight cocking of the Mamba's hips indicated to Veil that the man was getting ready for a combination of side and roundhouse kicks, which would probably be followed by a figure-eight attack with the knife hand. A split second before the first kick could be thrown, Veil flicked his right wrist. The leather strap darted through the air, and the drawstring tip snapped at the end with the speed of sound, producing a sharp crack. The Mamba arched his back an instant too late, and fear for his eyes flashed across the muscles of his face. Slowly blood began to fill a three-inch welt on his right cheekbone.
Veil's strike had caused the other man to lose his concentration and rhythm, and he reflexively reached up to touch the cut on his cheek. In that moment he was vulnerable, but still Veil waited.
As the Mamba recovered and again started to assume a fighting stance, Veil flicked his improvised whip twice—once at the groin and once at the knife hand. The second strike hit across the back of the man's hand, drawing blood. The Mamba ignored the pain and instantly lunged forward with his knife, but Veil was ready. He leapt to one side and spun away, at the same time flicking the whip at the man's eyes. The Mamba backed away. His tongue darted out, licked his lips.
Now the Mamba began to take defensive maneuvers against Veil's whip, slashing across his body at the flying leather. The focus of his attention shifted from Veil to the whip popping in front of him, and it was the mistake Veil had been waiting for. He purposely snapped the whip wide, beside the Mamba's left ear. Instantly Veil spun clockwise, knowing that he had only microseconds to act. Even as the man was slashing across his body, Veil's heel was inexorably moving toward the exposed right side of the man's rib cage. The blow landed, breaking two ribs. Veil kept moving, spinning out of the way as the Mamba, showing an incredible tolerance for pain, spun and slashed back through the space where Veil's belly had been only an instant before. But now Veil was behind him. Veil looped the strap around the man's neck, grabbed both ends, and pulled.