Another fragment of sound. A footstep.
A footstep far too heavy to be Ariadne's.
Burke went rigid; started to turn.
Only before he could even bring his eyes up, something clouted him a terrific blow to the side of the head, so hard it knocked him clear off his feet and against the wall beside him.
Desperately, he tried to roll clear, get his gun out.
But his eyes blurred. His head rang. A sandaled foot kicked the Smith & Wesson out of his fumbling fingers before the weapon had hardly cleared his waistband.
And now, a tremendous weight crashed down upon him. Blows rained to his face, his rib-cage, his belly. A knee drove for his groin. Cable-muscled fingers clutched his windpipe.
Burke choked on his own tongue. The fingers cut off his breath. His head spun. His chest heaved—lungs aflame, convulsing in agony.
Then spidery tendrils of blackness seeped into his brain. His will to fight ebbed. He felt himself drifting away, as on a swift-flowing stream that plunged into a cave's dark, swirling shadows.
Cautiously, the fingers relaxed on his windpipe.