Callsign: King II- Underworld

Somehow, Sokoloff arrested his slide. King kept his death grip on the hitman’s ankle and hauled in again. A swirling in the mist warned him that something was moving and he lowered his head as Sokoloff’s other boot struck out at him. The heel glanced off the side of his head and hammered into his shoulder. Before the Russian could draw back for another kick, King released one hand and snared the other foot. With a mighty heave, he hauled himself away from the edge and rolled sideways into the embrace of the mist.

“I see now why you’re worth ten million dollars, King.” The Russian’s voice reached out to him, shouting to be audible over the thunder.

“Ten million?” King managed to sound more confident than he felt. His head was throbbing from the blows he’d sustained, and the constant sonic bombardment was like a meat tenderizer working on his muscles. “Is that all Brainstorm thinks I’m worth? No wonder he can only afford cheap-ass punks like you.”

“Ha. What is it you Americans say? ‘Big talk is cheap’? I have killed six hundred and eighty-four men. Five of them, your vaunted airborne infantry, this very night. How many have you killed?”

King cocked his head, trying to pinpoint Sokoloff’s location from his shouted boasts. He got to hands and knees, and then lifted his head up for a quick peek, but the Russian was staying low as well, lurking beneath the mist like a shark in the shallows.

You’re not the only shark in the pool tonight, Ivan.

“Guess I never kept track,” King called out. “But whatever it is, it’s going to be plus one in a few minutes.”

He rolled back toward the cliff, going to what he hoped was the last place the hitman would expect, then low crawled as quietly as possible along the edge…ten meters…twenty. A ripple in the mist cover alerted him to danger and he rolled to the side as the long blade of a combat knife flashed out and stabbed down at him. The tip scored his back, opening a long but superficial gash, before striking the rock where he had been only an instant before.

King reversed and threw himself onto the hand that held the knife, pinning it to the ground, even as he reached out to grapple with its wielder. He was close enough to see his opponent; Sokoloff still wore the uniform and equipment of the soldier whose identity he had assumed, and while the bulky armor was a liability in terms of mobility, it limited King’s ability to find a vulnerable spot to focus his attack. The Russian struggled against him, and King felt the arm that held the knife start to move, warning of another thrust. He threw one arm up to ward off the blow, and then wrapped the other around the hitman’s helmeted head.

Levering his body like an Olympic weightlifter, he wrenched the helmet around, as if trying to twist Sokoloff’s head off his shoulders. He succeeded only in tearing the helmet free, and rolled away with the Kevlar composite shell clutched in his hand.

Sokoloff roared in agony as his neck twisted and the nylon straps ripped away skin, but his rage fueled a swift recovery and he slashed at King with his knife. King parried with the helmet, knocking the knife hand away with a solid blow, and then in the same motion, backhanded Sokoloff’s exposed jaw.

The Russian’s head snapped back as the helmet demolished bone and teeth. He flailed his arms, dazed, but King pressed the attack, slamming the combat helmet into the hitman’s skull. As the dazed man stumbled, King moved in to finish things quick and clean. He caught the man’s head in his hands and with a quick twist, broke the assassin’s neck. The man slumped to the ground at King’s feet.

There was no time to savor the victory however, or even to catch his breath. It had been just over ten minutes since the Bluelight device’s activation. King had no idea how much longer the world had to live, but he was pretty sure the needle was now well into the red.





39.


With the fury of the storm at his back, King ran. He rounded the corner of the building and saw the last remaining soldiers swinging their spent carbines like clubs, trying in vain to beat back the growing mass of attacking Mogollon Monsters. He felt a pang at witnessing their plight, but there was only one way to help them, and it didn’t involve joining the fray.

As he ran for the nearest Humvee that was still upright, several of the creatures took note of his presence and started loping toward him. The M1026 had been battered relentlessly. All the doors had been ripped off their hinges and the aluminum shell was crumpled like a discarded beer can, but King leapt into the misshapen cab and started the engine. One of the thick-skinned creatures got a hand on the vehicle as he punched the accelerator, but the spinning tires threw up a spray of gravel that knocked it back.