through the filigree masonry of his hide as the tail drew almost level with the guard house. The bloke was about to move on when something caught his eye and he moved closer to the wall in front of Mac, looking at a broken banyan branch.
Shit! thought Mac, as the tail moved closer to the branch. Mac had no choice. Driving upwards with both thighs he jumped clean over the masonry railing of the guard house, between the trees and onto his adversary. The Indonesian didn’t see Mac until the last second, but he managed to lift his right forearm as Mac descended onto his chest. The air expelled from the tail as he was catapulted backwards, Mac on top on him as they rolled onto the lawn. Grabbing for the gun at his hip, the tail was fast to react but Mac grabbed his wrist, threw a right elbow into the bloke’s teeth and then twisted the tail’s right forearm into a wrist-lock before he could recover from the blow. Gasping with the pain, the tail attempted a kick but Mac put more pressure on the wrist-lock and the resistance stopped. It didn’t matter how pro you were, no one wanted a broken wrist.
Reaching for the bloke’s holster, Mac grabbed the small automatic handgun and threw it into the bushes before using the wrist-lock to get the tail on to his feet and into the cover of the trees. The tail’s lips were white with the pain of the wrist-lock as they moved into the shade, and suddenly he went slack. As Mac tried to compensate for the man’s slump, the tail reacted, throwing his right knee into Mac’s groin and then a knife-hand at his throat. Stumbling from the pain in his groin, and taking the throat-shot on the carotid, Mac ducked and weaved to his left as the tail gave himself enough room to launch a roundhouse kick from his right leg. Mac was waiting for it, and was already weaving to his right, leaving the tail open to a right-leg kick. Mac took the opening and connected perfectly with his own roundhouse to the tail’s supporting leg. Taking Mac’s kick directly on the anterior cruciate ligament, the tail collapsed with a groan, his knee a misaligned mess. As Mac dived on the man, looking for a carotid choke-point to end it quickly, there was a familiar feeling of steel pushed against his scalp behind the right ear followed by a hammer cocking. Immediately, Mac removed his hands from the tail and let his quarry roll away as a hand grabbed a fist of his hair and the barrel pressed further into his scalp.
Kneeling in the pale brown banyan leaves, hands in the air and panting, Mac wondered where he’d thrown that handgun. And then, suddenly, it felt like time for a prayer – at least if he was going to die, it would be in a Balinese serenity garden.
‘So, McQueen,’ came an Asian male voice with a faint American accent. ‘You called?’
Panting, Mac slowly turned to his right. The gun in his face was a chrome Desert Eagle.45, the forearm was massive and the large round face was as serious as anthrax.
‘Hi, Bongo,’ Mac rasped. ‘How’s it going?’
CHAPTER 8
Denpasar’s traffic echoed into the silence between Mac and Bongo. Through the opened ranch sliders on the first-floor balcony overlooking Chinatown, Mac was dimly aware of the tail sitting on a lawn chair smoking a cigarette, a bag of ice strapped around his left knee. Inside, Mac and Bongo sat under a ceiling fan, talking over a low coffee table.
‘Look, Bongo,’ said Mac, gazing down the navel of the Desert Eagle, ‘let’s start this again, okay?’
Bongo looked from his position on the sofa. ‘What, you started for a first time?’
Mac leaned forward from the armchair and grabbed a bottle of Vittel. ‘I wanted to talk, Bongo, that’s it.’
‘McQueen just wants a chat – first time for everything.’
‘You know I don’t want to kill you, mate,’ said Mac, the adrenaline of the fight subsiding.
‘Well someone does,’ said Bongo, pulling the lapel down on his trop shirt to expose a large surgical dressing taped on his
Shit! thought Mac, as the tail moved closer to the branch. Mac had no choice. Driving upwards with both thighs he jumped clean over the masonry railing of the guard house, between the trees and onto his adversary. The Indonesian didn’t see Mac until the last second, but he managed to lift his right forearm as Mac descended onto his chest. The air expelled from the tail as he was catapulted backwards, Mac on top on him as they rolled onto the lawn. Grabbing for the gun at his hip, the tail was fast to react but Mac grabbed his wrist, threw a right elbow into the bloke’s teeth and then twisted the tail’s right forearm into a wrist-lock before he could recover from the blow. Gasping with the pain, the tail attempted a kick but Mac put more pressure on the wrist-lock and the resistance stopped. It didn’t matter how pro you were, no one wanted a broken wrist.
Reaching for the bloke’s holster, Mac grabbed the small automatic handgun and threw it into the bushes before using the wrist-lock to get the tail on to his feet and into the cover of the trees. The tail’s lips were white with the pain of the wrist-lock as they moved into the shade, and suddenly he went slack. As Mac tried to compensate for the man’s slump, the tail reacted, throwing his right knee into Mac’s groin and then a knife-hand at his throat. Stumbling from the pain in his groin, and taking the throat-shot on the carotid, Mac ducked and weaved to his left as the tail gave himself enough room to launch a roundhouse kick from his right leg. Mac was waiting for it, and was already weaving to his right, leaving the tail open to a right-leg kick. Mac took the opening and connected perfectly with his own roundhouse to the tail’s supporting leg. Taking Mac’s kick directly on the anterior cruciate ligament, the tail collapsed with a groan, his knee a misaligned mess. As Mac dived on the man, looking for a carotid choke-point to end it quickly, there was a familiar feeling of steel pushed against his scalp behind the right ear followed by a hammer cocking. Immediately, Mac removed his hands from the tail and let his quarry roll away as a hand grabbed a fist of his hair and the barrel pressed further into his scalp.
Kneeling in the pale brown banyan leaves, hands in the air and panting, Mac wondered where he’d thrown that handgun. And then, suddenly, it felt like time for a prayer – at least if he was going to die, it would be in a Balinese serenity garden.
‘So, McQueen,’ came an Asian male voice with a faint American accent. ‘You called?’
Panting, Mac slowly turned to his right. The gun in his face was a chrome Desert Eagle.45, the forearm was massive and the large round face was as serious as anthrax.
‘Hi, Bongo,’ Mac rasped. ‘How’s it going?’
CHAPTER 8
Denpasar’s traffic echoed into the silence between Mac and Bongo. Through the opened ranch sliders on the first-floor balcony overlooking Chinatown, Mac was dimly aware of the tail sitting on a lawn chair smoking a cigarette, a bag of ice strapped around his left knee. Inside, Mac and Bongo sat under a ceiling fan, talking over a low coffee table.
‘Look, Bongo,’ said Mac, gazing down the navel of the Desert Eagle, ‘let’s start this again, okay?’
Bongo looked from his position on the sofa. ‘What, you started for a first time?’
Mac leaned forward from the armchair and grabbed a bottle of Vittel. ‘I wanted to talk, Bongo, that’s it.’
‘McQueen just wants a chat – first time for everything.’
‘You know I don’t want to kill you, mate,’ said Mac, the adrenaline of the fight subsiding.
‘Well someone does,’ said Bongo, pulling the lapel down on his trop shirt to expose a large surgical dressing taped on his
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