“I didn’t hate him,” she said. “I pity him. Especially now. Vincent,
did you know he’d broken the cardinal rule?”
Vincent shook his head. “Not until . . tonight. It was a mad thing to
do.”
Intently watching the bald man, Ben reluctantly decided that the guy was
experienced with the Combat Magnum and would not be startled by its
recoil.
His grip on it was not at all casual, his right hand was clenched
tightly. His aim was not casual, either, his right arm was extended,
stiff and straight, elbow locked, with the muzzle lined up between
Rachael and Ben. He would only have to swing it a couple of inches in
either direction to blow one or both of them away.
Unaware that Ben could be of more use in such a situation than he’d ever
given her reason to believe, Rachael said, “Forget the damn gun,
Vincent. We don’t need guns. We’re all in this together now.
“No,” Vincent said. “No, as far as the rest of us are concerned, you’re
not in this. Never should’ve been.
We simpl,y, don’t trust you, Rachael. And this friend of yours…
The dirty-gray eyes shifted focus from Rachael to Ben.
His gaze was piercing, disconcerting. Although his eyes lingered on Ben
only a second or two, there was an iciness in them that was transmitted
to Ben, sending a chill along his spine.
Then, having failed to detect that he was dealing with someoue far less
innocent than appearances indicated, Vincent looked away from Ben, back
at Rachael, and said, “He’s a complete outsider. If we don’t want you
in this, then we certainly aren’t about to make room for him.”
To Ben, that statement sounded ominously like a death sentence, and at
last he moved with a sinuosity and lightning speed worthy of a striking
snake.
Taking a big chance that the second command to the voice-activated
switch would be as simple as the first, he said, “Lights off?” The room
instantly went dark as he simultaneously threw the flashlight at
Vincent’s head, but, Jesus, the guy was already turning to fire at him,
and Rachael was screaming-Ben hoped she was diving for the floor-and the
sudden darkness was cast into confusion by the whipping beam of the
tumbling Eveready, which he hoped would be enough to give him the edge,
an edge he badly needed because, just a fraction of a second after the
lights went out and the flashlight left his hand, he was already
pitching forward, onto the malachite desk in a sliding belly flop that
ought to carry him across and into Vincent, committed to action, no
turning back now, all of this like a film run at twice its normal speed,
yet with an eerie objective time sense so slowed down that each second
seemed like a minute, which was just the old program taking control of
his brain, the fighting animal taking charge of the body.
In the next single second a hell of a lot happened all at once, Rachael
was still screaming shrilly, and Ben was sliding, and the flashlight was
tumbling, and the muzzle of the Magnum flashed blue-white, and Ben
sensed a slug passing over him so close it might have singed his hair,
heard the whine of its passage even above the thunderous roar of the
shot itself-skeeeeeeeenfelt the coldness of the polished malachite
through his shirt, and the flashlight struck Vincent as the shot
exploded and as Ben was crossing the desk, Vincent grunted from the
blow, the flash rebounded and fell to the floor, its lance of light
coming to rest on a six-foot piece of abstract bronze sculpture, and Ben
was off the desk by then, colliding with his adversary, both of them
going down hard. The gun fired again. The shot went into the ceiling.
Ben was sprawled on top of Vincent in the darkness, but with a perfect
intuitive sense of the relationship of their bodies, which made it
possible for him to bring a knee up between the man’s thighs, smashing
it into the unprotected crotch, and Vincent screamed louder than
Rachael, so Ben rammed his knee up again, showing no mercy, daring no