Mercer found traction on the river bottom before Brodie did and he scrambled up the bank, but instead of running into the trees, he stood on the shore facing Brodie, who stopped about twenty feet from him in waist-high water.
Both men were breathing heavily, both holding their knives, and both keeping eye contact.
Brodie glanced back at the platform, but he didn’t see Taylor. He took a deep breath and said, “The choice, Kyle, was surrender or die.”
“I give you the same choice.”
“Okay, I surrender. Come and get me.”
“I don’t have to. There’ll be thirty armed men coming to get you in about five minutes. All I have to do is sit here.”
More like ten or fifteen minutes from the camp. And possibly the sound of Brodie’s two shots had not reached the camp, or if they had, no one in Camp Tombstone thought anything of it. But there could be some truth to Mercer’s statement, so Brodie did what he did best—he taunted him. “You’re the ball-less wonder, Kyle. Not Worley. Come on, asshole. You got a knife, I got a knife. No gun.”
“I know that. If you had your gun, you’d have pulled it—because it’s you who have no balls.”
“I’m chasing you, Kyle, you’re not chasing me.” Brodie started walking through the water toward Mercer.
Mercer dropped into a crouch, his knife out in front of him. “I’m gonna put your head on a pike.”
“I’m gonna put your dick over my fireplace.”
Brodie didn’t have time for a long knife fight if Mercer’s men were on the way, so he had to make this a short knife fight. He pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his left hand and forearm. He thought Mercer would do the same, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d missed the knife-fight class. That would be good.
Brodie was in knee-deep water now, less than ten feet from Mercer. He again glanced at the platform; no sign of Taylor. The platform was about a hundred and fifty feet away, just at the edge of the Glock’s effective range. Taylor might be lying prone on the deck, practicing fire discipline and noise discipline. Which was good. But if Brodie got any closer to Mercer, she’d have to be Annie Oakley to hit the right guy.
Mercer asked, “Having second thoughts?”
“I’m thinking you’re stalling for time so your thugs can get here.”
“Either way, Mr. Brodie, you’re dead or you’ll wish you were.”
Brodie had no idea where Taylor was—maybe she’d found the sat phone and was calling Worley or Dombroski—or Trent. That wasn’t a nice thought.
Mercer said, “I’m not coming to you. You come to me.”
Brodie had to make a decision. If he closed in on Mercer, then Taylor—wherever she was—wouldn’t have a clear shot. Mercer couldn’t be sure his men were on their way, but there was nothing lost for him in prolonging the dick-wagging. So Brodie had to finish this. He stepped out of the river and onto the black, slimy bank, his knife thrust in front of him.
Mercer backed up until he came in contact with a wall of vegetation. He had no room to fall back in a knife fight, which was a disadvantage, but he was on higher ground, which was an advantage.
Brodie moved a little closer and he saw Mercer smiling, which was what you were supposed to do before a knife fight to mess with the other guy’s head. Apparently Mercer had taken that class.
Brodie returned the smile and said, “Al Simpson told me you played a lot of Call of Duty when you were a kid. That’s pretty lame, Kyle.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe your father can work that into your eulogy.”
Brodie moved within knife thrust of Mercer and waited for him to make the first move, which, if it was the wrong move, would be his last.
Mercer stared at Brodie, then seemed to relax, which caused Brodie some concern. Had Mercer heard his men coming?
Then Mercer said, “Where’s your gun?”
Mercer hadn’t seen Brodie toss it to Taylor after Mercer back-flipped into the river. Brodie replied, “None of your fucking business.”
“No, what I mean, Scott, is you’re supposed to ask me—‘Where’s your gun, Kyle?’?”
Oh.
