An indrawn breath?
All of Ryan’s combat reflexes had been stretched to the limit, since the first appearance of the malevolent priest, ready to take instant advantage of any chance that appeared.
Sandor had a deep and ingrained sense of primitive evil on his side, combined with a total and brutish disregard for the sanctity of human life.
There was flurry of movement, a yell of surprise and the boom of the shotgun being fired, the charge shattering the oil lamp, plunging the cellar into almost total darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
“Go low!”
Trader’s familiar and well-remembered instruction when tackling someone with a scattergun was still so potent that Ryan actually heard the voice of his old chief ringing in his ears as he made his move against Father Sandor.
He dropped his stick, powering himself off his good leg, face contorted with pain at the enormous effort it took, diving across the eight feet or so of the cellar that separated him from the fat, brown-robed figure.
He heard Krysty start to scream out, and thought he heard the monk blaspheming at the attack.
There was the shattering boom of one of the 20-gauge barrels firing, and the scorching breath from the explosion that burned his hair, the immense force of the shot raking across his shoulders.
Then he collided with the enemy, shoulder striking Sandor just below the knees. Despite the man’s considerable bulk, the power of Ryan’s attack sent him staggering backward, off balance. The broken lamp was rolling around on the stone floor, at the center of a small pool of spilled, burning oil, casting a purplish glow across the crypt.
Just because the first stage of his plan had been successful, Ryan knew that the secret of winning a hand-to-hand combat was continuity. You attacked with all of your force, and you kept on attacking and attacking until your opponent was down and done.
Sandor kicked out at Ryan, but the one-eyed man had a good grip on his right leg, just above the ankle. He levered up with all of his strength, trying to ignore the stabbing pain from his wounded thigh. He hefted the huge figure backward, keeping himself tucked under the man’s belly, so that the monk couldn’t reach him with the scattergun.
“Fuck you!” the murderous priest yelled, swinging down the barrels, catching Ryan a glancing blow on the shoulder, but doing nothing to loosen his hold.
Krysty had screamed only once, then came quickly in to help Ryan, launching herself feetfirst at Sandor, the heels of her Western boots catching him waist high.
The man grunted in pain and shock, swaying backward, giving Ryan the chance to try a second heave on his leg, toppling him right off balance.
“Get blaster,” he panted, crawling up the sweating body, wincing as Sandor clubbed him across the temple with a massive forearm.
Krysty had rolled on hands and knees, moving with the agile grace of a big cat. She grabbed desperately at the barrels of the Winchester, keeping them steered away from Ryan as Sandor fought to fire the second 20-gauge round at his attackers.
Apart from Sandor’s brief curse and the heavy breathing, the fight was carried on in almost total silence.
The priest was rolled on his back, close now to the larger of the braziers, one chubby hand gripping the stock of the Winchester, the other scrabbling down at Ryan, trying to beat him away from his face.
The man was extraordinarily powerful, preventing Ryan from getting a good stranglehold on him, while also hanging on to the shotgun.
“Bastard shitters”
“Love you, too,” Ryan panted, finally managing to snatch the monk’s left hand, twisting and snapping the thumb out of its socket, eliciting a scream of pain.
Sandor’s robe had ridden up over his knees, and he kicked out at Krysty, catching her in the ribs, the air whooshing from her lungs. She flew sideways, still holding desperately to the semibeavertail forearm. Her weight pulled on the shotgun, and the second trigger was released.
Ryan heard the thunderous boom, filling the cellar with noise, and was aware of Krysty’s body flying to one side, landing in a heap against the wall near the dangling corpse.