The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 72

Heedless of the bloody struggle going on around him, he quickly opened the safe beneath his desk and withdrew the diamond. Pocketing it, he dove out of his hiding place and raced out of the room, leaving Brunner and Watson to fend for themselves. One or the other would prevail, but in the meantime, he needed to get to the boathouse and make a hasty retreat.

If he could make it to his office, he could retrieve documents that would allow him to flee the country. Once he'd found a safe haven---

Europe, perhaps---he could attend to the diamond. He'd fetch a smaller price on the black market, but maybe he could strike a more lucrative deal with some rich Middle Eastern dictator or another.

After he slipped out the front door, he hit the front lawn and made directly for the waiting boathouse, for freedom.

CHRIS threw wide the heavy garage doors that led to the open water.

Once the way ahead was clear, he upturned a jar of fasteners and dug through the pile of screws, nuts, and bolts, searching for the key to the boat. It took only a moment to find it, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

George hadn't moved it, after all.

He rushed over and transferred Brianna to the deck of the boat, untied the moorings, and leapt in himself. Ever cognizant of safety, he slipped a lifejacket over her head and fastened it securely about her. It was many sizes too large, but, cinching the strap as tightly as he could, he thought it might hold.

He dropped to his knees and held onto her arms. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, "Get in the bottom of the boat, baby. Get down on the floor and stay put, okay?"

She nodded and scampered underneath the seat, wrapping little arms around the post to which it was mounted.

"That's my girl," he praised. He gave her a wink, then made his way toward the bow and dropped into the pilot's seat.

Just as he inserted the key into the ignition, he heard pounding on the doors he had barred after allowing himself into the boathouse.

He pumped the throttle and turned the key. The engine cranked but sputtered and did not catch.

"Christian," George screamed at him from outside. "Christian, I know you're in there."

Panic seized him at the sound of George's voice, and he pumped the throttle again rapidly. "Come on," he pleaded as the engine turned and turned but refused to start. It had been sitting too long unused.

The doors barring George's entry gave just then, and he stormed inside in a raging fury. Fixing Chris with a deadly glare, he stomped along the planking and leapt onto the boat. Chris rose from the pilot's seat and backed toward the glass partition and the open bow.

There was nowhere left to run.

JASON pressed his back to the wall near the study and peered cautiously around the corner. He saw Brunner lying in a broken, bloody heap on the floor. Though it appeared he was still alive, he was unconscious and not a threat. Otherwise, the room was clear. He moved into the room cautiously, supremely conscious that he did not have a weapon.

Frank came up behind him and grabbed onto his arm in an attempt to pull him back. There was a hard, angry look in his eyes. "Damn it, Kingsley," he whispered through gritted teeth.

"The party's over," Jason said, indicating the broken pile of limbs that used to be Johan Brunner.

"The fuck do you think you were---"

There was a sudden loud "pop," and a look of stunned surprise came over Frank's face. He reached up to his chest as a crimson stain spread across his shirt on the right side of his body. His face drained of color, and his eyes rolled upward.

"No!" Jason cried as Frank collapsed onto the floor. Jason went down on his knees beside him and fumbled for Frank's firearm.

Before Jason could bring the weapon to bear, Watson rose to his full height from behind the desk. The gun he had just used to shoot Frank Marcus was aimed steadily at him. His remaining evil eye fixed on Jason's face and seemed to bore directly into him.

"We meet again," Watson said cruelly, the corners of his ugly mouth turning up in a smile.

Jason froze. He remained perfectly, utterly still. From his position on the floor at Frank's side, he looked up and directly into the eyes of death.

"Drop your piece, Kingsley," Watson said.

Jason moved to comply. Slowly, carefully, he placed his gun on the floor and shoved it away, out of his reach.

Watson came fully around the desk then, his weapon kept carefully trained between Jason's eyes. "How does that old saying go?" he asked in a gravelly voice, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor--- obviously the aftermath of his struggle with Brunner. "An eye for an eye, isn't it?" Watson motioned for Jason to stand.

Jason swallowed hard and rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving his adversary.

"We're going to do this nice... and slow," Watson promised, reaching down and unsheathing the hunting knife at his waist. He brandished the weapon expertly, slicing through the air with graceful ease as he placed the gun on the surface of the desk.

No longer under imminent threat from a bullet between the eyes, Jason adjusted his stance, preparing for hand-to-hand combat. He didn't have a knife, true, but he had years of expert training that made him just as deadly. Though Watson outsized him by a good fifty pounds, he had fought with this man before and had some sense of his style. It would be a difficult but fair fight.

Watson came for him, leading with the blade. They circled and he sliced out, catching Jason in the chest, giving him a taste of the razor-sharp steel. The blade cleaved through fabric and flesh. Blood pooled and overflowed. Though the injury burned like a firebrand, Jason's concentration did not waver. When the