Chapter 6 Last Good Man

The red dot didn't move. It was steady and centred on his chest.

Van threw himself to the side, landing on his shoulder. It didn't dislocate, but the impact hit him hard. He rolled again across the damp grass. Gravel cut into his palm, his suit, his leather shoes. He had no cover.

The headstone he was behind chipped.

A bullet pierced the ground, hitting the places he had just been moments ago.

He crouched down and kept moving trying to get a better view of where the shots were coming from.

Another shot came. It was closer this time. It grazed past his cheek. A drop of blood trickled down his face.

He scrambled on all fours, crawling to the nearest marker.

It could have been higher, he thought. A little to the left and he was gone. Not good.

He bit his lip. Sweat gathered on his forehead.

The cascade of shots stopped. The cemetery became quiet.

Van pressed his back against the rough stone breathing hard.

Then, a snap of a broken tree branch. Followed by the crunch of gravel. Light padded thudding on ground. It was fast and coordinated. It was getting closer.

Van peeked out from behind the stone. Two figures in tactical gear rounded the adjacent row of graves, blending with the surroundings.

Van charged towards one of them.

His shoes slipped on the grass. He caught himself on a headstone and it cost him precious time to execute the surprise attack.

He aimed a fist strike straight for the throat, a combat tactic designed to crush the windpipe.

He was slow.

The assailant shifted his weight, deflecting the blow with a forearm.

Van stumbled forward, his momentum failing him. He lost his footing almost falling.

The assailant countered. A blade glinted up the air.

Van twisted his torso away, but his reaction time wasn't fast enough. The serrated blade sliced through his jacket, cutting into the flesh of his upper left arm.

The pain was instant. Van grunted, tripping backward over an exposed tree root.

His hand went to his arm. Blood stained his fingers.

He got back to his feet, panting. The assailant didn't hesitate, lunging in to press the advantage. Van paid no attention to the knife arm, trying to get a hold on the man. His grip slipped repeatedly on the tactical fabric.

The assailant ripped Van's arm free and drove a knee into his stomach.

All the air left Van as he folded over, gagging. The knife came down toward his neck.

Van caught the descending wrist. The blade was just an inch from his eye. They strained against each other.

The man was younger, faster. But Van had survived more one-on-one fights than he could count.

Van dropped his body weight, dragging the man down to the ground. He drove his forehead up into the man's face.

The assailant recoiled.

Van rolled away. His hand frantically searched the grass. He found something hard. A piece of broken marble. He gripped it tightly.

The assailant recovered and rushed forward.

Van swung the marble hard into the side of the man's knee. As the assailant collapsed, Van mounted him, bringing the stone crashing down against his visor

The visor cracked and the man went limp.

Van gasped. The man was done for. Neutralised.

But the second attacker who had been watching the duel was already there.

A boot caught Van in the chest. Something snapped, a rib maybe. Agony shot through him as he hit the ground rolling.

The second assailant raised a suppressed pistol.

Van hurled the stone vase. It clipped the shooter’s shoulder, throwing the aim wide.

The bullet hit the ground.

Van dived at the man's legs. They went down in a tangle. He punched wildly. The assailant fought back, gouging at his face.

Van wrenched the pistol free, bringing the steel grip down hard on the man's temple. The wrestling abruptly ended.

Silence came back slow.

Van collapsed on his back looking up at the sky. He grabbed his side. His chest rose and fell. His left arm throbbed relentlessly, blood soaking the torn sleeve of his suit. He slowly brought his trembling hands up to his face. They were covered with debris and blood.

He looked at the two unconscious men and felt sick to his stomach.

It wasn't the violence itself that disgusted him. It was how natural it had felt.

He had been rusty in the beginning, but as soon as the layer of rust had fallen off, the fighting machine underneath woke up hungry.

Ten years of carefully constructed peace, of being a gentle man, of being a patient father and husband all went away in less than an hour. He closed his eyes, fighting down a wave of rising panic.

Laura.

He thought of her face. She had loved the quiet man he had become. He was afraid that the good man she loved had died in the blast with her.

Van opened his eyes. He gritted his teeth, rolling onto his uninjured side.

Something didn't feel right.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain in his fractured rib.

He looked back at the high ridge where the sniper had been positioned. If they had actually wanted him dead, the sniper would have taken the killshot while he was crouched still by the grave. Instead, the shooter aimed to the side, letting the bullet graze past his face.

He looked closely at the two men he had just beaten. They had attacked with precision, but the second man had deliberately held his fire opting for a physical kick instead of a point-blank execution.

They weren't trying to kill him.

What were they up to?

A rustle of leaves broke his focus.

He turned his head toward the tree line. A third figure was retreating, going deeper into shadows of the cemetery wall.

A watcher?

Van didn't give chase. He didn't have the strength.

Away from the cemetery, the surviving assailant moved briskly down a narrow street, staying away from the glow of the streetlights. He didn't look back. He raised a gloved hand and pressed two fingers firmly against the earpiece buried in his collar.

He didn't offer any lengthy talk. He simply stared into empty space and delivered his message.

“It's confirmed. Zero is still alive.”