Ultimate Weapon by Chris Ryan Page B

of four or five hours, so there must be some backup not far away. I’ll have to deal with them fast, before the help arrives.
    He took two more lunges forward. The mud was spitting up into his eyes and his face. Five yards. He took the kitchen knife from his pocket, and held it tight in the fist of his right hand. He could see the boots wriggle as the rain lashed into them, and he could hear one of the men speaking.
    ‘I think the old bugger’s fallen asleep in front of the telly again,’ the man said, in what sounded like an Irish accent.
    ‘Looks like another cold, boring night,’ replied his mate, in what sounded to Nick like a German accent.
    Nick plunged the knife into the first foot he could see before him. The thin blade sliced though the leatherthen cut through the sock and into the skin below. A blood-curdling scream howled up from the man’s lips. Nick swiftly withdrew the blade: he’d have liked to have searched around for a vein to cut, but the edge of his blade risked getting caught in the leather of the boot. He stood up swiftly, holding on to his lead pipe, swinging it forward. Both men were scrambling to their feet. The metal collided with the jaw of one of them, smashing into the bone and breaking the skin, so that a small trickle of blood started to dribble on to his neck.
    Nick stood straight up. He had the pipe in one hand, the knife in the other. Even through the murky darkness, he could make out the faces of the two men. The guy with the Irish accent was the taller of the two. He had longish brown hair, and a short, close-cropped beard, and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the rain. He had taken a bad blow to the side of his face from the pipe: it looked as if at least one tooth had been knocked out, and there was blood on his tongue. The smaller man, with the German accent, had dirty blond hair, cropped, and a thick, bull-like face that was pitted with spots. He’d taken a nasty slice to his foot, but was standing firm on the ground. He knows how to take a cut, Nick thought.
And he probably knows how to deliver one as well.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouted Nick.
    His face was red with fury. Rainwater was pouring down the side of his blackened face, and the blood was still dripping from the lead pipe in his hand. ‘Who the fuck sent you to watch me?’
    He was standing three yards from both men. Theshorter man was inching towards him. He had no weapons in his hand, but Nick could see he didn’t need them. He held the knife out in front of him. ‘Where the fuck is my daughter?’
    The man swung a fist. Nick slashed at him with the knife, but missed. He was just cutting the air. A blow landed on the side of his face. Instinctively, Nick thrust his arm up to parry it. He could feel the bone stinging where the fist had landed. A kick landed on his shins, briefly destabilising him, but he managed to hold his balance. He swung the pipe round, hitting the German in the stomach. ‘Fuck you,’ spat the German. ‘Fucking bastard.’
    ‘Leave it the fuck alone, Kurt,’ shouted the Irishman. ‘We’re not here to fight.’
    Nick slipped as Kurt had raised his fist, and Nick could see that it was about to crash into his skull. ‘Who in the name of hell are you?’ Nick shouted again, louder this time.
    The German’s fist was about to crash into him, when his mate rushed forward and got hold of him, pulling him back. Nick reached out, grabbing at the Irishman’s hair, but he ripped himself away, leaving just a few strands in Nick’s fist. ‘We’ve no reason to fight, old man,’ snarled the Irishman. ‘And we certainly don’t want you dead, you’re no use to us like that.’
    The German broke free. He smashed another blow into Nick’s stomach, doubling him up in pain. The pipe dropped from his hand. The German picked it up, and crashed it into Nick’s ribcage. He could feel at least onebone quiver, then snap. The pain was shooting up through his spine and exploding inside his head. Still