CHAPTER 6
Two Miles Below Immari Operations Base Prism
Antarctica
Dorian had almost reached the dead bodies—and the guns—in the corridor beyond the cavernous chamber. Behind him, he heard David’s naked feet pounding the floor. Dorian thought of jumping, but David tackled him, sending Dorian face first into the floor. A shrill wail filled the space as his bare skin slid across the cold floor.
They came to rest in the drying pool of blood around the dead bodies—their dead bodies. Dorian got the jump on his pursuer. He lifted his blood-soaked body just far enough off the floor to throw an elbow into David’s face.
David reeled back and Dorian seized the opening. He twisted and threw David off of him, then scrambled for the pistol lying six feet away, at the edge of the pool of blood—the same pistol David had killed him with before. He had to reach it; it was his only chance. David was thirty-three, about ten years younger than Dorian, and though Dorian would never admit it aloud, David was easily one of the best hand-to-hand fighters he had ever seen. This was a fight to the death, and without the pistol, Dorian knew he would lose.
Dorian felt David’s fingernails dig into the back of his thigh the instant before the fist slammed into his lower back. Pain shot into his kidneys and swept up his chest, sending waves of nausea that engulfed him. Dorian gagged as the second blow struck higher up, in the middle of his back, directly on his spine. The pain rushing over him almost subsided as he lost sensation in his legs. He collapsed to the floor as David crawled on top of him, preparing to finish him with a blow to the back of the head.
Dorian set his palms on the bloody floor, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, he pushed up, throwing his head back. He connected squarely with David’s chin, sending him off balance.
Dorian collapsed back to the floor and commando-crawled on his elbows, dragging his body through the blood. He had the gun, and he flipped over just as David landed on top of him. Dorian raised the gun, but David grabbed his wrists. He was stronger than Dorian, and he easily overpowered him. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dorian saw the Atlantean pace closer. He stared dispassionately, like a spectator at a dog fight who hadn’t bet on this round.
Dorian tried to think—he had to regain the advantage somehow. He released the tension in his arms and let them fall quickly to the ground. David lunged forward, but held his grip. Dorian twisted the gun in his right hand, pointed it at the Atlantean, and pulled the trigger.
David released Dorian’s left hand and grabbed desperately for the gun with his right. The fool was trying to save the Atlantean, as Dorian hoped he would. Dorian formed a straight wedge with his left hand and drove it into David’s upper abs, paralyzing his diaphragm. David gasped for air and rocked back. Dorian broke David’s grip, raised the gun, and shot him once in the head. Then he turned the gun and shot the Atlantean until the clip was empty.