Which direction will he use? Coltrane repeated to himself. Right or left? Fear made him feel so helpless that he could understand why an animal, caught in the glare of swiftly approaching headlights, didn’t flee from the tire that crushed it.
Which way? he demanded. He aimed quickly to the left and then the right. I can’t just wait here until he makes his move!
Choosing what he hoped was the least likely direction in which Ilkovic would expect him to go, Coltrane squirmed from the gully and headed straight ahead toward the cover of the burned-out car. Toward the camouflage of its smoke. The closer he got, the more he felt the lingering heat from the extinguished fire. The smoke had been dispersed somewhat by the rain, but not enough to stop irritating his nostrils. As he entered it, he tried to keep his face down and breathe shallowly.
Throughout, the walkie-talkie continued to gouge at his stomach. Stopping near the gutted car, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled out the walkie-talkie, and switched it on. A faint crackle told him that the battering it had received hadn’t damaged it. He pressed the transmit button. “Ilkovic, let’s end this face-to-face. Let’s do it now!”
He released the transmit button, set the walkie-talkie near the gutted car, and backed away.
“Photographer.” Ilkovic’s guttural voice crackled from the walkie-talkie. “You keep forgetting to say ‘Over.’”
Coltrane continued to crawl away.
“You want me to break your body with my fists? Is that the punishment you think you deserve? Your lack of imagination disappoints me. I have so many more inventive methods in mind.”
Coltrane was far enough that he could no longer see the walkie-talkie. In the gathering gloom, the static-ridden voice was almost ghostly.
At once, it fell silent.
Coltrane slithered into a depression filled with water. The ground had been so seared by the brush fire that it had formed a nonabsorbent shell. The rain was filling it. Immersing himself in the greasy pool, he allowed only his arms and head to be exposed. Resting the shotgun on a rock, he aimed toward where he had left the walkie-talkie.
Static crackled.
Ilkovic can use that sound to figure out where I’m hiding. That’s why he wanted me to keep the walkie-talkie on.
Coltrane eased his right index finger into the shotgun’s trigger guard.
Static crackled.
He must be pressing the transmit button on and off, creating noise without giving his own position away by speaking.
Coltrane braced his finger against the shotgun’s trigger. From the force of the rain, the smoke had now completely dispersed. But the burned-out car remained obscured, the storm darkening, the wind intensifying. As the pool in which Coltrane lay deepened, he ignored the pressure of the rising water and focused his attention on where he had set the walkie-talkie near the gutted car. Every murky detail appeared magnified. Soon Ilkovic’s shadowy figure would creep into view and -
Static crackled.
That’s it, Ilkovic. Keep listening for that sound. Get closer. Surprise me where you think I’m hiding next to the car.
The shock of surprise was total. From behind, powerful hands grabbed him, yanking him from the pool. Coltrane was so overwhelmed that his finger jerked on the shotgun’s trigger, discharging the weapon, spewing a blast of buckshot harmlessly into the storm. The hands, which had grabbed his shoulders, released him for the fraction of an instant Ilkovic needed to reach under Coltrane’s armpits and across his chest, the hands grasping each other, muscular arms squeezing against Coltrane’s rib cage.
Coltrane’s feet were off the ground. He struggled to breathe. The fierce noise of the shot had battered his eardrums. A terrible ringing in them added to his confusion, but he was still able to hear Ilkovic’s labored grunting as he squeezed harder against Coltrane’s chest.
“Is that what you had in mind, photographer?” Ilkovic murmured against Coltrane’s right ear, his breath so close that Coltrane felt it on his skin.
Coltrane fought for air. His vision became gray, spots of red dancing.
“This is only the start,” Ilkovic murmured intimately against Coltrane’s neck. “I’ll take you close to death a hundred times before you finally bore me.”
Grunting harder, he increased the pressure against Coltrane’s ribs.
I’m going to pass out, Coltrane thought in dismay. He had kept his grip on the shotgun, but the weapon was useless unless he worked the pump to eject the used shell and chamber a fresh one. He tried. He didn’t have the leverage. His arms no longer had the strength. Even if he did manage to pump a fresh shell into the firing chamber, he wouldn’t be able to aim at Ilkovic behind him.
Dropping the shotgun, Coltrane gripped his hands over Ilkovic’s and strained to pry them free, but Ilkovic’s thick fingers were like steel bands welded together. Coltrane couldn’t budge them. More red dots swirled in his vision as Ilkovic’s relentless arms tightened.
No! Coltrane jerked his head back as hard as he could, hoping that the rear of his skull would strike Ilkovic’s face with enough force to stun him and make him loosen his grip. But Coltrane was the one who was stunned. Instead of striking flesh and bone, his skull hit something metallic that had two round surfaces, its sharp edges gouging his scalp. He moaned in pain. A mask? His panicked thoughts weren’t able to identify the object. As his strength drained, he kicked his heels behind him toward Ilkovic’s legs, but they hit a slippery rubber rain slicker that Ilkovic was wearing, the impact absorbed.
McCoy’s revolver. Frenzied, Coltrane drew it from beneath his belt. Feeling the mud that covered it, hoping that it wouldn’t be jammed, that it wouldn’t backfire, he raised it, aimed it over his left shoulder, and felt it fly from his awkward grasp as Ilkovic released his left hand and yanked the weapon away, throwing it into the mud. Throughout, Ilkovic’s right arm was so powerful that he continued to maintain his suffocating grip on Coltrane’s chest.
But not completely. For an instant, while Ilkovic’s left hand was occupied with the revolver, the pressure lessened just enough for Coltrane to manage a gasp of air. It was one of the most purifying sensations he had ever known, erasing the spots in his vision, clearing his thoughts enough for him to remember he had another weapon. As Ilkovic’s left arm snapped back into position around Coltrane’s chest, Coltrane lowered his left hand, fumbled in his jeans pocket, took out McCoy’s knife, used his weakening right hand to open the blade, and mustered his remaining energy to stab the backs of Ilkovic’s interlocked hands again and again. The blade slashed and tore and shredded. Hot liquid spewed over Coltrane’s plunging fist.
Ilkovic screamed. Releasing his grip, he stumbled back, wailing. Coltrane dropped to the mud. Landing on his knees, he gasped to fill his lungs. His crushed ribs didn’t want to respond. He couldn’t inhale fast enough to replenish his strength.
Howling, Ilkovic grasped his mangled hands and cursed. At last, Coltrane was able to see him. But the top of Ilkovic’s face was covered not with a mask, but with a device that resembled the eyes of a giant insect. Night-vision goggles. Ilkovic had been using them to track Coltrane in the gathering gloom. With the hood of his camouflage rain slicker pulled up over his head and with the huge twin lenses of the goggles projecting from beneath the hood’s drooping folds, Ilkovic looked monstrous. Furious, he charged.
Coltrane dove to the side a moment before Ilkovic’s heavy-soled shoe would have collided with his groin. Rolling through the mud, Coltrane tried to keep the knife’s blade away from his own body, the weapon suddenly feeling puny against the massive force raging toward him. Coltrane’s photographs had shown how imposingly solid Ilkovic looked. But in person, he exuded a raw power that was awesome.