The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 73
He feinted left, jabbing out and connecting solidly with the tender spot beneath Watson's ribs. He knew it to be vulnerable thanks to the softening-up he had given it scant days ago. The man grunted in pain.
His face contorted, and he countered with the knife, this time drawing a red weal across Jason's arm.
As Watson lunged again, Jason landed a kick to his midsection and sent him careening into the wall. Watson roared and came back spitting.
As he charged forward, Jason dove out of the way, driving his fist into the vulnerability once again and ducking under the knife as he went.
Enraged, Watson spun, tracking Jason with the blade, cutting out in desperation. His once-graceful strokes were now clumsy, made sloppy by frustration.
Jason ducked the knife again and, with a hard punch, knocked it out of Watson's hand. Now unarmed, the brutish man had only his bulk to rely upon, and he used it to great effect. Before Jason could recover from the punch he'd delivered, Watson lowered his head and charged, pummeling into him like a linebacker. They went flying backward, Jason's lower back cracking painfully into the sharp edge of the desk.
Watson's fists flew, landing blow after blow. Jason held up his arms to defend himself, but the man was a force of nature.
Spots swam before his eyes, and a red stain appeared at the edges of his vision as fists slammed into his face, his upper body, his head.
Sensing that he was about to lose this fight, Jason dropped to his knees and delivered a swift punch to Watson's groin. Hit ' em where it hurts. Watson's mouth formed an "o" of shocked surprise, and he doubled over in agony. Moaning, he staggered backward.
As Watson careened away, Jason dove for the knife. He felt strong hands wrap around his ankle. He flailed as he was hauled backward, but he could not shake the grip.
His fingers scrabbled against the hardwood. He stretched out his arm as far as it would go. In the barest instant before he was pulled out of reach, he grabbed onto the hilt of the knife. As Watson yanked him across the floor, he rolled, kicked out with his free leg, and flipped upright, the weapon held before him like a spear. He thrust it forward and drove the blade home.
Watson gagged and shrieked, blood pouring out of his mouth as he fell backward. He clutched futilely at the hilt protruding from his chest, but it was no use. The knife had found its mark. Watson was dead before he hit the floor.
Jason dragged himself over to Frank, every muscle protesting as he forced his body to comply. He fumbled for a pulse and sighed in relief when he found it. It was thready and weak, but Frank was still alive. In the stillness, he could hear the faint, distant sound of sirens from outside the house.
Finally. Finally.
CHRIS met George's hateful glare as he climbed into the boat. The man he had once regarded as a father was virtually unrecognizable. His features were contorted into a mask of evil hatred. Chris raised his chin defiantly, prepared to defend himself and his daughter by any means necessary. This man was not the man he loved. He had become a monster.
George kept his eyes on Chris. He crouched down and withdrew a club from the storage compartment near one of the passenger seats. He brandished it before himself and stood to his full height.
"You have what you want," Chris said through gritted teeth, eyeing the club George held. "Let us go."
George drew the club through his hand and said, "I don't think so. I have the diamond, true, but there's the matter of the authorities." George glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "You and Brianna will make a fine pair of hostages if they try to stop me."
Chris's throat constricted. His heart ached. The change that had come over George was horrifying. "Why, George?" he pleaded. "Why?"
"You brought this on yourself, Christian," George said coldly.
"You with your foolish hope. I told you many times to give it up, but you just wouldn't listen."
"I would have given the diamond to you," Chris said. "All you had to do was ask."
The sincerity, the unrestrained honesty in Chris's pronouncement seemed to puzzle George. Something like regret flashed in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might falter. As quickly as it appeared, though, he snuffed it out.
"You're just like your father with this sickening idealism," George said. "It's easy to say now, when your life is in jeopardy, but under difference circumstances, you'd have been as consumed by avarice as any man." Clearly, George didn't understand that there were things in life more valuable than material possessions. He didn't know what true love was. He'd never had a child of his own. How Chris had misjudged this man. How his admiration had been misplaced.
"I would have given it to you," Chris said, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
George wavered again. As if to put down the uncertainty, he cried out and leapt for Chris, swinging the club before him.
Chris ducked out of the way and dropped to the deck. Brianna wailed from beneath the seat, and he shouted, "Run, baby!"
George made a grab for him and managed to catch his leg as Chris scrambled to get to his daughter. As he was hauled backward, he could see confusion and terror in the little girl's round eyes. "Run," he pleaded with her.
George hauled him to his feet and backhanded him. He saw stars as white-hot pain exploded across his cheek. George raised the club to swing.
They struggled with the weapon, and it fell from George's hand.
Enraged, George growled and flung Chris backward. He flew into the glass partition that separated the main deck from the open bow. His skull impacted forcefully with the metal frame, and