The Kill Room

away and delivered another blow to the side of his head. “Get out, Ron. Go for help. You can’t do anything here!”
    “I’ll get backup.” Running footsteps, exiting. A door in the back crashed open.
    Swann elbowed her, aiming for the belly, but she twisted just in time to avoid a debilitating blow to the solar plexus. Sachs drove a fist into his side, near his kidney, which sent a burst of pain up to his teeth. Still gripping the wrist of her gun hand, he slugged her hard in the face with his left fist. She grunted and winced.
    Thinking again of her injury, he slammed a knee into hers, and she gave a gasping cry. The pain seemed to be intense. It loosened her guard for a moment and his strong hand clawed farther toward the gun in her hand. He was almost to it. Another few inches.
    He kicked her joint again. This time she barked a high scream and her grip on the gun slackened even more. Jacob Swann lunged for the weapon.
    He touched the grip of the Glock—just as she flung her hand backward, releasing her hold. The pistol spiraled away, invisible in the smoke.
    Shit…
    Tugging at each other’s clothing, trading glancing blows and direct strikes, rolling on the floor, they fought desperately. Smelling sweat, smoke, a hint of perfume. He tried to force Sachs to her feet, which, with her damaged knee, would give him the advantage. But she knew it would be all over then and kept the fight on the ground, grappling and striking.
    He heard voices from outside, calling for him to come out. The tactical teams wouldn’t risk an entry with the smoke and their star detective inside, invisible through the smoke. Also, for all they knew he’d had an Uzi or MAC-10 hidden on him and would spray the first dozen officers through the door with automatic fire.
    Swann and Sachs, sweating, exhausted, coughing.
    He leaned toward her as if to bite; when she backed away fast he reversed direction and broke her grip. He rolled away and crouched, facing her. Sachs was in more pain and more winded. She was kneeling on the ground, cradling the joint. Tears filled her eyes from the ache and from the fumes. Her form was ghostly.
    But he had to get the gun. Now. Where was it? Nearby, it had to be. But as he moved forward she glared at him, feral, hands turning from fists to claws and back again. She rose to her feet.
    She froze and, wincing, reached for her hip, which like her knee also seemed a source of agony.
    Now! She’s in pain, distracted. Now, her throat!
    Swann leapt forward and swung his left hand, open, toward the soft pale flesh of her neck.
    And then pain like nothing he’d felt in years exploded up the arm he swung, pain from hand to shoulder.
    He jerked back fast, staring at the stripes of blood cascading through his fingers, staring at the glint of steel in her hand, staring at her calm eyes.
    What…what?
    She held a switchblade knife firmly in front of her. He realized she hadn’t been gripping her hip out of pain, but had been fishing for the weapon and clicking it open. She hadn’t stabbed him; he’d done it himself—with his furious blow aimed at her throat he’d driven the flesh of his open hand into the sharp blade.
    My little butcher man…
    Sachs backed away, crouching in a street-fighter knife-fight pose.
    Swann assessed the damage. The blade had cut to bone between his thumb and index finger. It hurt like hell but the wound was essentially superficial. The tendons were intact.
    He quickly drew the Kai Shun and went into a stance similar to hers. There was, however, no real contest. He had killed two dozen people with a blade. She was probably a great shot, but this wasn’t her primary weapon. Swann eased forward, his knife edge-up as if he were going to gut a hanging deer carcass.
    Feeling comfort in the handle of the Kai Shun, the weight, the dull gleam, the hammered blade.
    He started for her fast, aiming low, imagining the slice, belly to breastbone…
    But she wasn’t leaping back or turning and fleeing, as he’d anticipated. She stood her ground. Her weapon too—Italian, he believed—was positioned edge-up. Her eyes flicked confidently among the blade, his eyes and various targets on his body.
    He stopped, backed up a few feet and regrouped, flicking hot blood from his left hand. Then moving in fast once more, he feinted with a lunge but she anticipated that and easily avoided the Kai Shun, swinging the switchblade fast and nearly taking skin from his cheek. She knew what she was doing,