The Game (Tom Wood)

FORTY-SIX





He was fast. But Victor had expected him to be. Dietrich sprang forward into range to slice at Victor’s face, his left hand out to control distance and ward off counterattacks. Victor blocked, striking Dietrich’s right forearm at ninety degrees with his left, forcing the blade away and stepping forward to stab with his own, aiming for Dietrich’s neck but settling for tearing his T-shirt when Dietrich whipped back out of range, bouncing on the balls of his feet, not committing to the attack, testing Victor’s speed.

Dietrich shuffled forward, shooting out his arm for a quick backhand slash at Victor’s throat, but it was too fast and Victor knew it was a feint to bring up his guard. He was ready when Dietrich followed up with a stab under his left elbow, aiming for his stomach, blocking it by slamming that elbow down onto Dietrich’s fist and sidestepping so the blade missed and Dietrich was off balance when Victor countered with a half slash, half stab that caught him on the shoulder and drew blood.

It wasn’t deep and didn’t slow Dietrich’s assault.

‘Robert,’ Francesca yelled.

Although a large space, the kitchen offered little room to manoeuvre due to the table, but there was enough to move in and out of range while they fought in the same back-and-forth rhythm. If Dietrich fully committed to the attacks and pressed forward, accepting any superficial wounds he sustained in the process, he could easily force Victor back far enough that he would run out of room. Then, without the ability to dodge and create space between them, Victor wouldn’t be able to parry Dietrich’s fast attacks for long before the blade started finding its mark. But Dietrich was fighting like the experienced knife fighter he was – in and out – relying on his reflexes and speed and skill. He had a total disregard of strategy and tactics because he hated Victor, as Victor had wanted him to.

Coughlin arrived first. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

Victor didn’t answer because it was obvious. Dietrich didn’t answer because he was too busy attacking and he couldn’t talk and fight at the same time. Victor parried a thrust, blade to blade. Dietrich ducked and dodged back, away from Victor’s counter, slashing at Victor’s leg as he did so. Victor felt the burn of a hit above his left kneecap. He glanced down. A small cut to his trousers and a small amount of blood.

‘Stop this,’ Leeson said as he followed Coughlin, but he stopped in the doorway, not daring to get any closer. He didn’t shout, but he spoke loudly and with authority. ‘Stop this immediately. That’s an order.’

Victor hesitated to see what Dietrich would do now his boss had told him to halt. But his opponent attacked again anyway, trying to capitalise on Victor’s passivity – a high slash followed by a low one, aiming for Victor’s face and then the inside of his thigh. Victor darted out of range.

Leeson didn’t repeat himself because he had to know neither man was going to obey mere words.

‘Mr Coughlin, would you please—’

Coughlin cut him off. ‘I’m not getting between those two.’

‘For God’s sake, Robert, do something,’ Francesca barked. ‘You have a gun, don’t you?’

Dietrich launched another attack, even faster and more frenzied than before, because he knew that once Leeson brought a firearm into the equation everything would change. Either he would be forced to cease his attempts to kill Victor, or he might have to fight a bullet instead.

Victor backed off, keeping out of the blade’s path, defending only because the fight was about to be over – however it ended – and he wanted to appear to have acted purely in self-defence. He let himself be trapped in a corner with countertops converging behind him to encourage Dietrich to lunge in – which he did – and ducked below the knife before sweeping Dietrich’s load-bearing leg out from under him.

Dietrich landed on his back and immediately rolled backwards over his head and on to his feet. He charged forward, rage dictating tactics, and Victor caught the attacking wrist and dropped his own blade so he could lock the arm. But Dietrich was too fast and strong to allow Victor to break it at the elbow.

They hit the floor together.

Victor went down first, Dietrich on top of him. Victor immediately wrapped his legs around Dietrich’s neck, keeping hold of the knife wrist. Dietrich roared and stood, lifting Victor off the floor and slamming him back down, shoulder blades colliding with the floorboards. The breath was knocked from Victor’s lungs, but he kept hold of the wrist.

Dietrich used his free hand to punch at Victor, but though they were hard blows, he couldn’t get his weight behind them. Victor maintained hold of Dietrich’s arm to keep the knife immobile.

Leeson had the small SIG in hand and aimed at the two men fighting on the floor. ‘Mr Coughlin, take the knife out of Mr Dietrich’s hand. Mr Dietrich, you will let him or you will get shot. Mr Kooi, if you don’t then release Mr Dietrich, you will get shot. Doesn’t everyone understand?’ He didn’t wait for anyone to supply an answer. ‘Now, if you please, Mr Coughlin.’

Coughlin hesitantly moved closer.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

‘A stirring performance,’ a voice said from the open exterior doorway. ‘But lacking a certain finesse.’

Dietrich stopped punching and struggling. The aggression slipped from his face. On the floor, Victor couldn’t see the speaker, but in his peripheral vision he saw Coughlin hesitate and Francesca stiffen. But Leeson smiled.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You rejoin us at last, Mr Hart.’