“Bah. My patience can’t last forever. Split him.”
As the men tightened the ropes Wolfe lowered himself to a squat, pulling at my sleeve, and I went down to him. He had the long knife in his right hand. I had been so intent with my eye at the hole that I hadn’t seen him take it from his belt. His left hand was fumbling at a pocket. He whispered in my ear, “We’re going in when he screams. You open the door, and I go first. Gun in one hand and capsule in the other.”
I whispered back, “Me first. No argument. Rescue him?” He nodded. As we straightened up he was still fumbling in his pocket, and I was reaching to the holster for the Marley. It didn’t carry the punch of the Colt, but I knew it better. I admit I felt in my pocket to touch the capsule, but I didn’t take it out, wanting the hand free. The door should be no problem. On our side was a hasp with a padlock hanging on a chain.
He started to scream. A glance showed me that Wolfe’s left hand had left his pocket, and he nodded at me. As I pushed the door open and stepped through, what was at the front of my mind was light. Its source hadn’t been visible through the hole. If it was a lamp, as it must be, and if one of them killed it, knives would have it on guns. The only insurance against it would be to plug the three of them in the first three seconds.
I didn’t do that, I don’t know why — probably because I had never shot a man unless there was nothing else left. The scream drowned the sound of our entry, but Bua saw us and dropped the rope and goggled, and then the other one; and the man in the chair jumped up and whirled to face us. He was closest, and I put the Marley on him. Wolfe, beside me, with the hand that held the knife at his belt level, started to say something but was interrupted. The closest man’s hand went for his hip. Either he was a damn fool or a hero, or because I didn’t say anything he thought I wasn’t serious. I didn’t try anything fancy like going for his arm or shoulder, but took him smack in the chest at nine feet. As I moved the gun back to level, the hand of the man on the right darted back and then forward, and how I knew a knife was coming and jerked myself sidewise the Lord only knows. It went by, but he was coming too, pulling something from his belt, and I pressed the trigger and stopped him.
I wheeled left and saw a sight. Bua was at the wall with his knife raised, holding it by the tip, and Wolfe, with his knife still at belt level, was advancing on him step by step, leaning forward in a crouch. When I asked him later why Bua hadn’t let fly, he explained elementary knife tactics, saying that you never throw a knife against another knife at less than five meters, because if you don’t drop your man in his tracks, which is unlikely if he’s in a crouch, you’ll be at his mercy. If I had known that I might have tried for Bua’s shoulder, but I didn’t, and all I wanted was to get a bullet to him before his knife started for Wolfe. I fired, and he leaned against the wall, with his hand still raised. I fired again, and he went down.
This is funny, or call it dumb. Before Bua even hit the floor I turned around to look for the light. I had entered the room with the light on top of my mind, and apparently it had stayed there and I had to get it off. It was a letdown to see that it came from three spots: two lanterns on a shelf to the right of the door, and one on the floor at the left. I had worried about nothing.
Wolfe walked past me to the chair, sat, and said, “Better look at them.”
Peter Zov, still hanging, croaked something. Wolfe said, “He wants down. Look at them first. One of them may be shamming.”
They weren’t. I took my time and made sure. I suspected Bua when I put a piece of fuzz from my jacket on his nostrils, holding his lips shut, and it floated off, but two more tries showed that it had been only a current in the air. “No shamming,” I reported. “It was close quarters. If you wanted any—”