Cambodian Hellhole Read Online Free Page B

forgotten, desperate to make sure the heavy did not rise again and renew his attack. His left hand brushed against the back of a decorative chair and he scooped it up in passing and swung it high above his head as he closed on the groggy, fallen slugger.
    The attacker was trying to rise now, his bulk in the darkness and his labored breathing told Mark Stone that much. Stone brought the chair down on his head and shoulders, felt its frame disintegrate on impact, and the guy went limp, collapsing back onto the threadbare carpeting.
    He was about to give the buffalo a rib-kick for old times' sake when a flying body struck him hard and low, propelling him forward into a facedown slide through darkness.
    Stone gasped as the man's full weight came down across his back and shoulders. Desperately he arched his spine, pushing off with hands and knees, struggling to raise the dead weight, to cast it aside. For a heartbeat, the issue was in doubt, his attacker wallowing across his back like some paralytic bronco-buster, than the weight was gone and he was free again, at least momentarily.
    Stone rose to hands and knees, about to find his footing, when a boot drove hard into his ribs, lifted him, and dumped him over on his back. Another boot, and something seemed to snap inside him, lightning bolts of pain rushing along his spine, detonating at the base of his skull in multicolored streamers.
    They could kill him if he did not find his feet. If he stayed down . . .
    The soldier twisted, brought himself into a fetal curl, and was waiting when the boot slashed in for thirds. He caught it, cushioning the impact with his arms and hands, and twisted, pushing off, forcing the stomper to spin like a whirling dervish, fighting for balance.
    The guy lost it, vaulting backward into darkness, landing hard across the coffee table, crushing it beneath his weight. Stone did not wait around for someone else to find him where he lay; he staggered to his feet and put some ground behind him, stopping finally when he reached the cover of a wall.
    His final adversary made his rush, and was screaming as he came, a hurtling juggernaut intent on crushing Stone against the plaster wall. Stone felt the first disturbance of the air as his assailant launched a flying kick, and he was gone when it impacted, but felt the wall absorb the shock, the plaster cracking, showering dust.
    Before the startled slugger could react or get his balance back, Stone had him by the ankle, twisting, bringing that leg up and over at an angle it was never meant to hold. The guy was airborne in an instant, shoulders touching down before the rest of him received the message.
    And Stone was straddling his chest, both hands locked tight around the straining throat. No need to see the face above the windpipe, just as long as he could gouge his thumbs a little deeper, cutting off the vital flow of oxygen. Another second now, no longer, and . . .
    The lights blazed on, the artificial glare momentarily blinding Stone. He hunched his shoulders, bracing for the blow he knew was sure to come, but he did not release his grip upon the purpling throat.
    By God, he would take this one with him when he went, and they would have to pry him off, the sons of bitches. Just a heartbeat longer.
    And then he recognized the sound of the revolver being cocked.
    A glance in the direction of the open doorway told him all he had to know about the ambush and his adversaries.
    The C.I.A. man, Carruthers, was framed in the doorway, his pistol leveled at Stone's face almost casually.
    "I recommend that you release that man," the agent said, his tone disinterested. "Please believe me when I say that I have no desire to shoot you. But I will, if you insist."
    Stone believed him. He released the thug and left him sputtering for air as he rolled away, rising nimbly to his feet.
    "That's good," Carruthers said. "I hoped we could reach some kind of deal."
    "Like hell."
    The agent's smile was frosty.
    "But we have, old son.