Part 25 (2/2)

”Stop,” ordered Marilyn. ”This is far enough. Turn around.” Thorne stopped abruptly. Marilyn stepped a foot too close. A roundhouse kick thudded against Marilyn's chest, sending her cras.h.i.+ng backwards to the ground, her weapon firing into the sky. Simon aimed and fired. Thorne ducked into the woods, and disappeared.

Before Simon could turn around, Robert rammed him with a body block, knocking him on top of Marilyn, and ran in the opposite direction.

He heard both of them screaming. Machinegun fire filled the air.

”I'll go after her,” Marilyn yelled.

Robert stayed low, running in a wide circle, keeping a sharp eye out for Thorne. He knew she'd do the same.

He couldn't hear anyone following, but kept running, branches slapping him in the face. He saw a tree in his path and he jumped, but something caught his foot and s.n.a.t.c.hed him to the ground. Thorne!

”Shhhh,” she said, a finger to her mouth. ”If we lay here we can catch them off guard,” she whispered.

”No,” said Robert. ”We have to go back to the barn and get the evidence. Edward's there alone.”

”They have a truck. They could beat us back,” she said. ”We should take them here, then head back.”

Robert thought. ”Okay, but n.o.body gets back to warn Edward.” Ten minutes pa.s.sed. The wind whistled through the trees, making it difficult to hear.

”We'll wait a few more minutes,” Robert whispered. ”Then...” Robert heard the crunch of underbrush, then spotted Simon and Marilyn together, s.p.a.ced a few feet apart, crouching low. Simon panned a flashlight back and forth. Marilyn followed the beam with her rifle.

Robert gave a hand signal, and Thorne circled around so they could hit them from both sides.

Crawling on his belly, Robert made his way to some brush directly in their path, and waited. The light moved close. He heard whispers ten feet away.

The flashlight hit the brush where Robert hid. They stopped. He saw them look to Marilyn's left, in Thorne's direction. Marilyn shot into the brush, then checked the spot where she fired. As far as he could tell, they found nothing, then continued in his direction.

Good. Just a little closer.

Thorne sprang up behind them, grabbed Marilyn around the neck and s.n.a.t.c.hed her to the ground. Simon turned to fire, but Robert jumped up and tackled him to the ground.

Thorne wailed on Marilyn's face, foregoing the machine gun, which was well within her reach.

Simon scrambled to his feet empty handed. Robert hit him with a reverse forearm on the bridge of his nose, smas.h.i.+ng it into mush.

Simon's face twisted in rage, like a rabid badger, cornered and crazed.

He rushed forward, dropped to the ground, and swept Robert's legs from under him. He tried to get back on his feet, but Simon pounced, punching like his name was Sugar Ray.

He sent a flurry of bombs upward, then s.n.a.t.c.hed Simon by the collar and yanked downward, head b.u.t.ting him in the mouth. He cried out, grabbed Robert around the throat, and squeezed, with vise-grips Robert couldn't pry loose.

He bucked and kicked, unable to throw Simon off, frantically scratching the ground, searching for a weapon. His hand touched a rock and he crashed it against Simon's head, sending the sinewy little man flying. Robert stood up gasping. Simon lay face down, motionless.

Thorne and Marilyn, b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised, circled each other like prizefighters. Robert took a step, but Thorne held up her hand and he stopped.

She hit Marilyn with a vicious combination; Marilyn retuned it with a barrage of her own, and kicked Thorne in the stomach. His partner fell backwards, but sprang to her feet like a cat.

She rushed Marilyn, who refused to retreat, and they lit into one of the most ferocious toe-to-toe flurries Robert had ever seen.

Their punches landed like multiple gunshots with neither giving an inch. Marilyn growled, rushed forward, and rammed Thorne into a tree.

Her arms dangled like noodles, her eyes rolled up in the back of her head. Marilyn forearmed her in the face, and kicked her into some brush.

Thorne fell out of sight.

”What's the matter, girlfriend,” Marilyn taunted, breathing hard.

”You black b.i.t.c.hes make a lot of noise, but where you at? I knew your black a.s.s was overrated.” She turned toward Robert and picked up her rifle.

”Now let's finish this.”

She fired, grazing Robert's left arm. He dove to the ground and rolled, bullets whistling by. A scream ripped through the night, and the shooting stopped.

Robert stood. Thorne had Marilyn from behind, her bicep wrapped around the agent's neck. Marilyn dropped the rifle, and kicked and struggled for her life. Thorne let Marilyn drop to the ground, picked up the weapon and tossed it into the woods.

Thorne circled, watching her catch her breath. ”Get your white a.s.s up!”

Marilyn spit blood, wiped her mouth, and stumbled to her feet.

”Okay b.i.t.c.h. Let's go.”

She rushed Thorne and caught a flurry of punches to the body and face. Marilyn swung back, missed, and lost her balance. Thorne hit with a kick and forearm smash, breaking Marilyn's jaw and nose. She fell on her face and crawled, mumbling and coughing up blood.

Thorne straddled her from behind and leaned close to her ear.

”Listen, girlfriend. Didn't your mama tell you to never call a black woman a b.i.t.c.h? You see, we can be, we just don't like hearing it.” Thorne placed her other arm around Marilyn's neck and squeezed.

The agent struggled, but the sound of her neck breaking made it moot.

Robert heard bushes rustle behind him. Simon scrambled to his feet and bolted into the woods. They caught him at the clearing in front of the truck. Simon picked up his knife and slashed the air like a samurai.

”It's over,” said Robert. ”Drop the knife and we'll take you back to the ranch.”

Simon's face twisted. ”I'm afraid that's impossible Mr. Veil. You see, I...”

He rushed Robert, but Thorne grabbed him from behind and slammed him to the ground. Simon dropped the knife. She picked it up, and cut his throat.

”Now it's over,” said Thorne. ”Let's go.” They hopped in the truck and headed back to the ranch. Thorne checked the glove compartment, and found a .45 automatic. Robert turned the headlights off, stopping about fifty yards from the fence around Rothschild's property.

”Let's walk in from here,” said Robert. ”We'll head for the barn, secure the casket, then drive the truck up to load it.”

”What about Rothschild?”

”We'll take him in if we can,” he said. ”He'll stand trial for what he's done. It'll send a message”

Thorne looked at him, incredulous. ”It won't send a d.a.m.n thing,” she said. ”A bullet in his skull will.”

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