Phoenix Island (41 page)

T
HE CHIP WORKED,” STARK SAID,
stepping down from the lead truck and walking toward him. “Carl Freeman, you are, without a doubt, the most amazing person I have ever met.”

No way out,
Carl thought.
No escape.
Behind Stark, dozens of automatic rifles zeroed in on him. He had suffered so long, survived so much, fought so hard, gotten so close, only to end like this?

“Stop,” he said, and pulled the doctor close, pressing the pick to his throat, “or I kill your pet monster.”

Stark stopped, but his smile was unconcerned. “I’d rather not lose him, but he’s not exactly irreplaceable, you know. He doesn’t make the chips. He just plugs them in.”

“Oh yeah?” Carl said. “What about his other talents? You’d need to find a new torturer.”

Stark shrugged. “True. He is a maestro of pain, but any kid with a mean streak and a set of vise grips could do the job. Dr. Vispera can be replaced. Only
you
are indispensable.”

Carl said nothing. He scanned the scene, studying Stark, the troopers, the compound.

“Dr. Vispera wanted to delay your operation even longer,” Stark said. “Weeks, months, whatever it took to perfect the chip, but once your wounds healed, I told him no more waiting. This was bigger than him, bigger than science—this was destiny. And I was right. We didn’t need new chips or new procedures. We needed
you
.”

Carl couldn’t see a way out. Too much space, too many guns. He
imagined all those rifles firing at once, punching holes through not only him but Octavia as well, ending them both.

“Tell me,” Stark said. “Is it amazing? I assure you, whatever you’re feeling, it’s only the beginning. There are many levels to the chip. We’ll unlock those together.”

Carl’s mind raced, but he saw only guns and hard stares, trained killers ready to pull the trigger, the culmination of this brutal place and its bloodthirsty traditions, the end product of Stark’s all-holy warrior culture.

His warrior culture . . .

All holy . . .

That was it, his only shot.

“Ah, he smiles at last,” Stark said. “You’ll join me, then?”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, no?” Stark said, gesturing toward his troopers. “And how do you plan to extricate yourself?”

“Simple,” Carl said, and now it was his turn to smile. “I challenge you to a duel.”

Stark laughed. “What a flair for the dramatic! You must know that I could, as your commanding officer, sentence you to death for simply making the challenge.”

“You won’t.”

“No? Why not?”

“There would be no honor in it,” Carl said.

Stark stared for a moment, the laughter gone from his face. “So you’re going to force me to kill you, is that it?”

“No,” Carl said. “I issued the challenge, so you set the conditions.” He shrugged. “We don’t even have to fight to the death.”

“A duel to submission?” Stark said. “And why would I agree to that?”

“Because if you win,” Carl said, “I’ll join Phoenix Force. You’ll have exactly what you want: my cooperation and a chance to study the chip in action.”

“Intriguing,” Stark said. “And if you win? What do you expect in return?”

“Freedom,” Carl said. He nodded toward Octavia. “You let us go. Us and anyone else who wants to leave.”

Stark shook his head. “Not a chance.” He held up one index finger, then the other. “This is a one-on-one duel. It’s only you fighting me, not you and some boatload of refugees. One person fights, one person leaves . . . if you win.”

Carl hesitated only a second. “Fine.”

“Excellent. I hereby accept your challenge, Carl Freeman, under the following conditions. The duel will take place immediately—or as soon as we can gather everyone from the island. We’ll skip the prefight meditation.” He smiled. “No weapons, no holds barred. Punching, kicking. grappling, everything. When one duelist surrenders or can no longer carry on, it’s over. If you win, I provide safe passage back to the mainland.”

Carl nodded.

“And if I win,” Stark said, cracking his knuckles, “you stop these silly struggles and accept your destiny, and we move forward together into a new age.”

T
HEY FACED EACH OTHER ON
the beach, under a boiling sun, the sand burning hot beneath Carl’s bare feet. A slight breeze, weak as a dying breath, sighed off the ocean, rippling the black flag overhead and stirring the crimson phoenix burning at its center. Twenty feet away, at the far end of the living ring of spectators, Stark lazed through a prefight warm-up, coming out of a stretch and throwing a loose combination.

This was it. All or nothing.

Beyond Stark, beyond the spectators, Octavia sat rigid in the wheelchair, the mask of terror still frozen on her face.

How had it all come to this?

How had a simple promise, made years ago to his father, brought him to this place, this moment?

Stop,
Carl told himself, and shook out his arms.
Get your head straight
.

This was it, all there was, all there ever would be. He needed to see this moment for exactly what it was, nothing more, nothing less: a duel to the finish, not a boxing match and not his fight with Parker—who, compared to Stark had been small and weak, slow and inexperienced, a stupid, brutal man lost to rage.

How could he defeat Stark? How could he even hurt him? The man was armored in muscle, and his brain, tucked away in the helmet of his skull, sat high atop his thick neck. To even hit it, Carl would have to get close, dangerously close, right where Stark wanted him.

If they’d been fighting on solid ground, Carl would have tried to kick
him in the knee, but kicking here, in the sand, would be too hard, too slow, a fatal mistake.

Stark would stalk him, and unless Carl found a way to stop him, the hulking warrior would eventually walk through Carl’s punches as he had on the pier, pull him into a crushing lock, and finish him.

Well,
Carl thought,
I just can’t let him do that
.

But how could he avoid close combat?

He needed to stick and move, punch and get out.

But the spectators pressed close, tightening the ring, and even now, as Carl rocked back and forth, his feet sank into the soft sand. How could he stick and move with the very ground trying to hold him in place?

No wonder Stark had chosen the beach.

“Duelists,” Cheng, who had been named referee, called, coming into the center. “At the ready.”

Stark peeled off his shirt, revealing the physique not of a man but a god—the god of pain and suffering, every inch of his torso rippling with muscle and matted with scars, the body of a soldier who had been shot and stabbed, slashed and beaten, blasted and burned, and had come out the other side still moving, still fighting, still waging war on the world. He stretched his thick arms, covering half the ring with their great span.

“Fight!” Cheng said, and the spectators howled with glee.

Carl shuffled forward, heart pounding.

Stark walked toward him, a smile on his face. “Son,” he said, “why go through this? Give up this silly game. You’ve already won the real fight. You’ve survived. With that chip in your head, I can train you to do amazing things—”

The world slowed as Carl flicked out a jab, ducked Stark’s halfhearted swipe, and sidestepped away, toward the center of the ring. His punch had missed—he hadn’t dared to go closer—but it was amazing how clear everything was, how much he could see during the brief exchange, and how easy it had been to dip under Stark’s attack. Still, he hated the way the sand clutched at his ankles, slowing him, making him clumsy.

“Fast hands,” Stark said, still smiling. “But you’ll need to come closer if you’re going to actually hit me.”

No thanks,
Carl thought, and threw another jab. He didn’t go closer, and he certainly wasn’t going to hang in there to throw a combination. Again, Stark reached, and Carl slipped away easily—but then stumbled into the spectators, who roared with laughter and shoved him back into the ring.

That shove almost ended him. But with his mind flashing at light speed and his body moving automatically, he slipped Stark’s next punch and scrambled away.

Standing there in this slowed world, Carl saw so much: the doctor, Phoenix Force, his old platoon. Tamika, Sanchez, and Davis stood in front, cuffed and chained together like some kind of road gang. Tamika was crying and Sanchez looked sick. Davis was shouting, urging Carl forward. There was no sign of Lindstrom at all—nor did Carl see Parker or Decker. Most of Phoenix Force cheered, pumping their fists and chanting, “Stark! Stark! Stark!” but Henshaw frowned, Boudazin watched with a pale face, and Agbeko looked on with no expression whatsoever.

All these lives,
Carl thought,
all these ruined lives
.

What could he do about it? How could he beat Stark?

So far, he was fighting it like a boxing match, sticking and moving, waiting for his opponent to tire. . . .

Only this wasn’t a boxing match, and Stark wouldn’t tire. Not now, not ever.

He would continue to plod after Carl, expending little energy as Carl hurried from side to side through the clutching sand. Stark’s endurance would not fail him. Neither would his patience. Sooner or later, Carl would slow or stumble, and Stark would pounce.

There was no escape, no way to avoid close combat.

“Come on, Carl,” Stark said, his voice light and friendly. “You see it now. Just submit.”

Carl shook his head.

Stark said something else—then surged forward, driving a kick straight at Carl’s midsection. It was oddly fascinating to see the kick
coming in slow motion and even more fascinating to swivel so easily out of its path, the recognition of what he had to do and the actual execution of that thing a single action. Stark blasted past, and Carl moved once more to the center.

And in that moment, watching Stark turn and start another patient approach, Carl finally realized the true advantage of this new speed. His hands were faster, yes, and this new speed would give him more power, but neither of those things would save him now, not on their own.

The real magic of his new speed wasn’t in his fists or feet; it was in his eyes and mind.

He had to see everything, had to find a plan before it was too late.

Another jab, another dip under Stark’s cautious swipe, and even as Carl slipped away, he felt a glimmer of hope.

That pattern: jab, swipe, slip.

Over and over.

Stark was patient like a hunter and had no reason to change the pattern. He could continue his inexorable stalking, expending little energy, reaching for Carl but never overreaching, exposing only his side to counterattacks, secure in the knowledge that his heavily muscled body could absorb a lot of punishment and that to do any real damage, Carl would have to risk going inside.

“You’re bleeding,” Stark said, pointing at Carl’s side.

Carl didn’t look down. Didn’t dare to—and didn’t need to, either. He could feel the blood, and he realized then he’d been ignoring the pain in his side, suppressing it, but there it was, pulsing away like a distant lighthouse flashing faintly in a foggy night.

“The gunshot wound, no doubt,” Stark said. “The blood virus is good, but even you would need more time to heal fully from something like that. Speaking of time, yours is running out, don’t you think?”

Carl said nothing, but Stark was right. Time was running out.

Stark put his hands on his hips like an exasperated parent. “Let’s just—”

Carl threw another left jab and slipped once more to the left, slipping again under Stark’s right arm, which swept overhead. This time, however, Carl focused his speeding eyes and mind on Stark’s side, a target
he had originally written off, assuming there was no damage he could deliver there that would justify getting that close. But this time, Carl didn’t look at Stark’s side as a single block. This time, he scanned all of it, every piece, and as he slipped once more to the center of the ring of screaming spectators, he had his target.

It wouldn’t work in boxing, with gloves—that’s why he hadn’t seen it earlier—but this wasn’t boxing, and he knew, no matter how much it scared him, exactly what he needed to do.

It would take him straight into Stark’s clutches.

So be it.

He had one shot, and he needed to take it before internal bleeding or the sucking sand or a lucky punch from Stark ended him.

“This is all a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” Stark said, walking calmly toward him again. “Think of it. You’ve beaten the odds—not once, but twice—first the hunt, then the operation. Amazing! Why ruin your proudest moment with ridiculous cat-and-mouse—”

Carl feinted with a half jab, dipped, and fired his real attack.

No matter how many weights you lifted or how much protein you consumed or what substances you pumped into your body, you could only add muscle to muscle. You couldn’t grow muscle where none had ever been. When Stark reached again, Carl drove a left uppercut not into his exposed side but straight into his armpit. He watched in slow motion as the convulsion rippled out of that unprotected bundle of nerves, saw the man’s thick arm going instantly limp and useless as a noodle, and drove his right hand into Stark’s body. This was a “stop punch,” thrown not to inflict serious damage but instead to do just what it did: to interrupt Stark’s momentum and jam his turn.