Cryptozoica (37 page)

Wadjet stared down at him contemplatively, still chewing. She inserted a thumb and index finger into her mouth and removed a little chunk of raw, masticated meat. Leaning down, she thrust the blood and saliva-damp piece of flesh toward Belleau’s mouth. Face twisting in revulsion, he recoiled so hastily he stumbled. Crowe and Mouzi laughed.

“She thinks you’re the runt of the litter,” Crowe said. “I guess she still has a maternal instinct…takes a reptile to love a reptile.”

Aubrey Belleau’s eyes flashed in sudden fury. “Don’t make sport of me!”

Mouzi uttered a contemptuous laugh. “Lighten up. You’ve been calling me a mongrel for two days and here you are being force-fed Quinterotops steak tartar to bulk you up.”

Teeth bared, Belleau whirled on her with a speed that deceived the eye. He lunged forward, grasped the barrel of the M-16, and using all of his considerable upper body strength, slammed the stock deeply into the pit of Mouzi’s stomach.

All of Mouzi’s breath exploded past her lips in an agonized grunt. Belleau yanked the autorifle from her hands and she fell to her knees. He hammered the butt of the weapon against the back of her head, driving her face first to the cavern floor.

Almost in the same instant, Oakshott lashed out with the length of bone in his hands, smashing it down on a clump of ganglia on Crowe’s right forearm. Crying out, his fingers lost all feeling and the revolver fell to the ground. A lightning fast follow-through with the tip of the cudgel slammed against his jaw and knocked him flat to the cavern floor.

Pivoting smoothly on the ball of his foot, Oakshott drove the blunt end of the bone into Kavanaugh’s diaphragm. He folded over in the direction of the sickening blow and Oakshott jacked up a knee against his chin. It was like being kicked by a tree. Multicolored pinwheels spiraled behind his eyes.

Kavanaugh fell onto his side, agony spreading through his bruised torso. He tasted bile rising in a burning column up his throat, but he managed to keep it down and his eyes open, although he saw everything through a gray fog.  He glimpsed Oakshott swing the bone at Bai Suzhen, who parried the blow with the sword, chopping out a fragment.

For a long moment, the two people exchanged a flurry of bludgeon-blows and sword strokes, but Oakshott used his greater strength and weight to batter the blade down and then smash his cudgel against the side of her head. She went staggering across the chamber and fell, the sword chiming briefly against the stone.

Oakshott spun and twirled the bone between the fingers of his right hand. His face creased in a superior smile as he played to a non-existent crowd.

Kavanaugh struggled to raise the Colt Python, but Oakshott whirled around and cracked the tibia against his wrist, knocking the pistol from his hand, and then swept his arms out from under him with a kick. A deep boring pressure at the base of his neck kept him prone as Oakshott leaned his weight on the length of bone, grinding his face into the rock.

“Relax, Jack,” Oakshott said in a low voice. “You really didn’t think it would be that easy with me, did you? I’m a professional, ex-SAS…you’re a barely talented amateur, a boozy flyboy.”

Over the pounding in his ears and the thunder of the waterfall, Kavanaugh heard Honoré shout furiously, “Let him up, you bastard!”

Belleau said in a gloating croon, “Do as the doctor says, Oakshott.”

Oakshott pulled the bone away, tossing it aside. Kavanaugh pushed himself up by shaking arms. The big man stared down at him, a faint smile of disdain creasing his lips. Mouzi lay on the floor, unconscious, her hair clotted with blood seeping from a laceration on her scalp. Crowe stirred feebly. He could not even see Bai Suzhen.

A smirking Belleau held the rifle at waist level. He kicked both revolvers to one side. Wadjet stared in wide-eyed, silent wonderment, apparently only perplexed by the sudden outburst of violence, not disturbed by it.

Honoré kneeled beside Kavanaugh. Her green eyes, blazing with loathing, fixed on Oakshott. “You’re a coward.”

“And you’re a silly, obnoxious cunt, mum,” Oakshott retorted quietly. “Pardon my French.”

“Now what, Aubrey?” demanded Kavanaugh. “You think you can just waltz out of here, hand-in-hand with Wadjet and somehow get her back to the world without drawing attention from customs or anyone else?”

“That’s exactly what I think. Why else would I even consider going into business with the triad if not to take to advantage of their smuggling lanes?”

“You’re out of your mind,” Honoré said raggedly. “Completely mad.”

Belleau grinned wolfishly. “I’m thinking very clearly, darlin’. You’re going to help me walk out of here with Wadjet.”

“The Deinonychus will most likely eat out your heart,” declared Honoré. “You don’t understand the risk of this undertaking.”

“What you don’t understand is that I no longer
care
about risk. I’m not a big man, but even the smallest of men can move the world with a large enough fulcrum.” He nodded meaningfully toward Wadjet.

“That’s what she is to you?” spat Honoré. “The fulcrum by which you will stake out a monopoly on the new drugs processed from this poor creature’s blood and bone marrow? You would damn her to a life full of torture so you can achieve
that?
”

“I’d damn you and everyone else I know to the lowest pit of Hell rather than continue to live in this body!” Belleau snarled out the words, drops of spittle flying from his lips. “A prince, a king, a hero, trapped in the twisted body of a monstrous child, a court jester, a freak.”

He kicked the motionless Mouzi on the hip. She did not react. “My last wife called me Quasimodo with a doctorate! The unfaithful cow…so that is what I am—a creature fit only to be made sport of by harlots?”

Looking into Belleau’s rage-maddened face, Kavanaugh’s stomach turned a slow flip-flop of nausea. Honoré stared at him with wild, wide eyes as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

She stammered, “All of this was done in the hopes of making yourself over…transforming yourself into your childish image of what a man is
supposed
to be?”

Belleau’s face flushed red. “Not just my image—I see how you look at this Yank bounder. Tall, scarred, brave, even if most of his courage is poured from a fifth of bourbon. Irresponsible, arrogant and ignorant. All of you harlots murmur at the feet of these swaggering, faithless vessels who care nothing for anyone but themselves.”

Belleau drew in a long breath through his nostrils. He stepped back. “The interesting thing is…how they squeal and soil themselves like pigs when they know they’re about to die. Oakshott—show her what I mean.”

Kavanaugh didn’t hesitate. Tensing every muscle in his body, even those that throbbed, he performed the maneuver gymnasts call the kip-up. He thrust his legs straight out at a thirty-degree angle, bent his knees, planted his feet flat and used the momentum of the kick to spring upright.

For an instant he stood face-to-face with Oakshott, then he sprang forward, butting the big man squarely in the forehead, on the bridge of his nose. The impact sent shivers of pain all the way to the base of his spine, but Oakshott went staggering backward, arms windmilling as he tried to maintain his balance. The pallor of the man’s face was brightened by the spattering of blood spraying from his nostrils.

Belleau shouted in wordless anger and whipped the rifle toward him. Kavanaugh glimpsed a blur of movement, then Crowe’s arm throttled him from behind. Belleau struggled, twisting around with the M16, but Crowe back-fisted the barrel aside.

Belleau’s finger closed over the trigger and he fired a stuttering burst into the ceiling. Thunderous echoes rolled. Ricochets screamed and rock chips and dust sifted down. Wadjet clapped her hands over the sides of her head, eyes wide in sudden fear, her mouth forming an O of wonder.

Growling deep in his throat, Belleau gripped the stock and barrel of the rifle, and threw his weight forward, muscling Crowe to the floor. He pressed the frame against Crowe’s throat. Crowe wrenched and heaved, straining to keep the rifle from crushing his windpipe. Honoré dove forward, bowling into Belleau and all of them went down in a thrashing tangle of limbs.

Oakshott dabbed at the scarlet strings dripping from his nose and stared at Kavanaugh with a puzzled expression. Allowing a cold, taunting smile to play over his face, Kavanaugh assumed a combat posture, reservoirs of adrenalin pumping through his system. He beckoned to Oakshott with a forefinger and said, “C’mon, Hamish…show her what Belleau meant.”

Face locked in a tight mask, Oakshott bounded toward him, fingers curled against his palms, swinging his hands in intricate, criss-crossing leopard’s-paw strikes. Kavanaugh backed away from a slashing right hand, ducked the left and leapt forward, throwing his fists in a one-two jab at Oakshott’s face with every ounce of his weight behind them.

Oakshott evaded both punches with lightning swift moves of his head. He swung his left hand viciously in return, fingers bent into hooks. The blow struck Kavanaugh across the ribs and the impact numbed his right side but he retained his footing. They stood toe-to-toe and traded blows and blocks. Kavanaugh landed a wicked shovel-hook uppercut, but then took a punishing upset punch to the belly.

He nearly doubled over as streaks of pain lanced through his solar plexus, but he managed to shift aside and stay upright. He estimated that Oakshott’s strength was at least twice his own. His expression must have betrayed that realization to the big Englishman

Oakshott feinted toward his face and then thrust up his knee, seeking to pound Kavanaugh’s testicles, but he twisted around so the impact landed against his upper thigh. Almost instantly, his leg went numb and buckled beneath him.

Snorting out a laugh, Oakshott closed in, his arms quickly curving up and under, hands linking at the back of Kavanaugh’s neck. Kavanaugh’s head went down under the relentless pressure of the giant’s arms. He heard the creaking of cartilage and his breath blew out of his mouth in a hoarse cry. Skewers of pain lanced through his upper back.

Oakshott chuckled thickly. “You surprised me, Jack, you really did. But you’re still just an amateur with some training and talent.”

Oakshott cinched down harder. “And like all amateurs, I’ll wager you’ll squeal and soil yourself.”

A red-hot knife stabbed through the back of Kavanaugh’s neck. His throat constricted against the scream that tried to force its way past his lips. He felt a wispy brush against his mind, a question, a plea, and a command all at the same time.

Get up, Jack! Get up and run or you will die!

His mind formed desperate words:
I can’t run, so I must die, and you will be taken from here and fed upon.

He focused his thoughts on images of Wadjet being dragged away in a net, of her home looted, of the corpse of her mate cut into sections by big buzz saws. He concentrated on visions of Wadjet strapped to an examination table, tubes and needles piercing her flesh, sucking out her blood. He imagined Oakshott standing over her, grinning in malicious triumph, thumbing a razor keen knife.

He powered all the images with complete conviction, packing them with the ruthless unshakable certainty that the visions would come true and he was terribly grieved that he could not help her.

I should not have come back. I cannot run and I will die and so will you. I am sorry.

Suddenly, Oakshott’s grip loosened, relaxed and Kavanaugh fell limply to the floor. He rolled his head, gasping for breath, his heart trip-hammering and he saw Oakshott backing away, looking past Kavanaugh with an unreadable expression on his face.

As his vision cleared, he saw Wadjet approaching Oakshott, her eyes cold and savage, her yellow, red-filmed teeth bared in a silent snarl. Oakshott said something, lifting his hands, palm outward, but because of the roar of the waterfall, Kavanaugh couldn’t hear what he said.

Wadjet seemed to lash out across almost twice as much distance as her arms should have been able to span and Oakshott staggered backward, his eye sockets raw, red jelly-smears.

There were blurred movements of flailing arms and claw-tipped fingers. Hands over his face, Oakshott fell to the floor, crashing against a stack of ceramic jars. Wadjet bent over his body for several seconds, and then she plunged her right hand into Oakshott’s chest, punching through, flesh, bone and cartilage. He flung his head back and howled, blood flying from his lips. He convulsed, arms and legs spasming.

With a splintering of ribs, Wadjet yanked her hand out and up, holding Oakshott’s quivering heart, squeezing it between her fingers. Blood pumped in crimson rivulets down her slender wrist and forearm. Kavanaugh tamped down a sudden surge of nausea.

Belleau fought his way out of the grapple with Crowe and Honoré, using the stock of the autorifle to beat them back. Shock froze him in place when he saw Wadjet holding Oakshott’s blood-dripping heart. His eyes bulged and in a hoarse, horrified whisper he gasped, “Hamish!”

The man’s name turned into a wild scream of fury. Belleau aimed the M16 at Wadjet, who stared at him challengingly. Honoré lunged for the rifle. “Aubrey, no––!”

Belleau twisted away from her grasp, realigning the rifle. “It’ll be just as easy to cart away samples carved from her body.”

A shadow flitted between him and Wadjet. Metal flashed, like a mirror reflecting an errant sunbeam. Belleau uttered a thin cry of astonishment and went stumble footing backward, the rifle clacking noisily at his feet. The plastic stock dropped in two pieces, sliced thorough cleanly.

Staggering on wide-braced legs, Belleau stared at the blood-jetting stump at the end of his right arm. His eyes lifted to Bai Suzhen, who advanced on him, sword angled up and over her head. The edge of the blade glistened carmine.

As if his mind did not comprehend what his eyes saw, Belleau lifted his wrist in front of his face. A stream of crimson squirted over his cheek.

By the time he reached down and plucked his amputated hand up from the floor, Belleau had dragged in enough air into his lungs to start screaming. He whirled and ran in raw panic, a gibbering explosion of mindless terror erupting from his mouth. He yelped with every footfall. Not even the raucous calls from the Deinonychus feeding in the bone-yard slowed him down.