Bourne 7 – The Bourne Deception - Страница 33

Taking the key from the chain at the guard‘s hip, he unlocked the door and pushed the guard into the darkened interior. As he followed him in, he shut the door behind him, but not before he‘d caught a glimpse of Scarface hurrying down the ramp. Now that he‘d ascertained the place of Bourne‘s meet, he was prepared to close in on his quarry.

Bourne found himself in a small anteroom filled with wooden bins containing food for the bulls and an enormous soapstone sink with outsize zinc spout and taps, beneath which sat buckets, cloths, mops, and plastic bottles of cleaning fluids. The floor was covered with straw, which absorbed only a minuscule part of the stench. The bull, hidden behind a concrete barrier that rose to Bourne‘s chest, snorted and bellowed, scenting his presence. The frenzied shouts of the crowd broke like waves over the toril, above which sunlight, multicolored from the reflections spinning off the costume of the matador and the outfits of the patrons, splashed across the upper walls of the pen like an artist‘s broad and reckless brushstrokes.

Bourne drew a cloth from one of the buckets and was halfway across the anteroom when the door behind him opened so slowly one needed to be looking straight at it to be aware of the movement. Putting his back to the barrier, he moved to his left, toward the part of the room where the opening door would block Scarface‘s view of him.

The bull, frightened, angered, or both by the sudden new human scents, struck the concrete barrier with its hooves, the force so powerful it sent bits of stucco flying on Bourne‘s side. Scarface seemed to hesitate, no doubt trying to identify the noise. Bourne was almost certain that he had no idea that the next bull was waiting here for its turn to die a bellowing death in the corrida. It was a creature of pure muscle and instinct, easily provoked, easily bewildered, fast and deadly unless brought low by exhaustion and a hundred wounds out of which its life dribbled into the dust of the corrida.

Bourne crept behind the door as it slowly opened, as Scarface‘s left hand appeared holding a knife with a long, slender blade shaped like that of the matador‘s sword. The wicked tip was tilted slightly up, a position from which he could thrust it, slash it, or throw it with equal ease.

Bourne wrapped the cloth around the knuckles of his left hand, providing sufficient padding. He let Scarface take one tentative step into the anteroom and then rushed him from the side. The killer‘s instinct caused the blade to come up and out in a semicircular sweep as he turned toward the blur of motion he detected at the extreme corner of his field of vision.

Deflecting the blade with wrapped knuckles caused Scarface‘s defense to open up, and Bourne stepped in, planting his feet, turning from his hips, and drove his right fist into Scarface‘s solar plexus. The killer gasped almost inaudibly and his eyes opened in a moment of shock, but an instant later he‘d wrapped his right arm around Bourne‘s, locking the back of his hand against the inside of Bourne‘s elbow. Instantly he applied both pressure and leverage in an attempt to break the bones in Bourne‘s forearm.

Pain shot up Jason‘s arm, and he faltered. Scarface took the opening and brought the knife blade down, inside Bourne‘s wrapped left hand so that the point was directed at Bourne‘s rib cage. He couldn‘t concentrate on both motions at once, so he let up fractionally on Bourne‘s forearm long enough to drive the blade inward toward Bourne‘s heart.

Bourne stepped into the lunge, surprising him. Bourne was suddenly too close and the blade passed along his side, allowing him to trap Scarface‘s hand between his side and his left arm. At the same time, he kept his forward momentum going, driving Scarface across the room at an angle, backing him up against the stucco barrier.

Scarface, enraged, redoubled his efforts to break Bourne‘s arm. A moment more and the bones would snap. On the other side of the barrier, the bull scented the blood in the air, which further maddened it. Once again, its great hooves struck the barrier. The shock reverberated down Scarface‘s spine and jolted him from his position of superior leverage.

For a moment Bourne broke free, but Scarface had maneuvered the knife in his trapped hand so that the blade raked down Bourne‘s back, drawing blood. Bourne swiveled, but the knife blade followed him, jabbing ever closer until he vaulted over the barrier.

Scarface followed without hesitation, and now both of them were in unknown territory, facing not only each other but the enraged bull as well.

Bourne had the immediate advantage of knowing it was there, but even he was surprised by its size. Like the corrida, the pen was divided by sunlight and shadow. Dust motes hung in the light in the upper half of the pen, but below was the darkness of the Minotaur‘s cave. He saw the bull in the shadows, red eyes glittering, black lips flecked with foam. It was staring at him, pawing the ground with massive hooves. Its tail switched back and forth, its massive shoulders were bunched with muscle and sinew. Its head lowered ominously.

And then Scarface was on him. The man, solely intent on Bourne, was as yet unaware of the creature with which they shared the pen. The three skulls, each peering in a different direction, filled Bourne‘s vision. He brought an elbow up, aiming for the throat, slammed it into Scarface‘s chin instead as the killer partially deflected the blow. At almost the same time Scarface smashed his fist into the side of Bourne‘s head, bringing him down to the packed-dirt floor. Rolling over, he grabbed Bourne‘s ears, pulled Bourne‘s head off the ground, then slammed it back down.

Bourne was rapidly losing consciousness. Scarface was astride him, his bulk painfully pressed down on Bourne‘s rib cage. There was a moment when Scarface grinned. He slammed Bourne‘s head down again and again, taking increasing pleasure.

Bourne thought, Where’s his knife?

He felt around on the floor with both hands, but there were flashes behind his eyes, the light and dark of the room were spinning, merging into a pinwheel of silver sparks. He felt his breath laboring, his heart hammering in his chest, but as his head was once again slammed into the dirt even these vital sensations began to slip away, replaced by a numbing warmth that flooded inward from his extremities. This warmth was soothing, taking away all pain, all effort, all will. He saw himself floating on a river of white light, moving away from his world of shadows and darkness.

And then something cold intruded and for a moment he was certain it was the breath of Shiva, the destroyer, whose face he sensed hovering over him. Then he knew the blade of cold for what it was. Taking hold of the knife‘s hilt brought him back from the brink, and he plunged the blade into Scarface‘s side, piercing the flesh between his ribs, skewering his heart.

Scarface reared up, his shoulders trembling, but perhaps, Bourne thought, they weren‘t trembling at all, because his head was still spinning from the pounding it had taken. He had trouble focusing. How else to explain Scarface‘s head being replaced by that of a bull? This wasn‘t Crete, he wasn‘t in the Minotaur‘s cave. He was in Seville, at the Maestranza corrida.

Then full consciousness returned and, with it, the knowledge of precisely where in the corrida he was.

The pen!

And as he looked up from his prone position he saw the bull, huge and menacing, its head lowered, its razor-tipped horns angled to disembowel him.

Undersecretary Stevenson did not look at all well when Moira and Veronica Hart found him, but then no one looks particularly good stretched out on a slab in the cold room of the DC morgue. The two women had been searching the area surrounding the Fountain of the Court of Neptune sculpture near the entrance to the Library of Congress. As fieldwork protocol dictated, they began at the point of origin-in this case, the fountain-and began moving outward in a spiral, hoping to spot some clue that Stevenson might have left as to what had happened to him.

Moira had already called Stevenson‘s wife and married daughter, neither of whom had seen or heard from him. She had just looked up the number of Humphry Bamber, Stevenson‘s friend and old college roommate, when Hart got the call that a corpse fitting the undersecretary‘s description had just been brought into the morgue. The Metro police wanted a positive ID. The DCI had turned to Moira, who said she‘d give the prelim. If it was Stevenson, the cops could call his wife to make the formal ID.

— He looks like shit, Hart said now as they stood over the cadaver of the late Steve Stevenson. -What happened to him? she asked the associate ME.

— Hit-and-run. C1 to C4 of his spine crushed, as well as most of his pelvis, so the vehicle must‘ve been something big: an SUV or a truck. The AME was a small, compact woman with an enormous coppery halo of wild curls.

— He never felt a thing, if that‘s any consolation.

— I doubt it will be to his family, Moira said.

The AME went on unperturbed; she‘d seen and heard it all before. It wasn‘t that she was callous, just that her job demanded dispassion. -The cops are investigating now but I doubt they‘ll find anything. She shrugged. -In these cases they rarely do.

Moira stirred. -Did you find anything out of the ordinary?