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honor than to be hunted, to be wanted by the baddest-ass killers there were. |
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It went the other way, too. Killing so exquisite an enemy was a privilege granted only the most cunning. He didn't mean remote-control stuffdropping bombs or lobbing mortar shells or machine-gunning the bush. Real war was hand-to-hand combat. One-on-one. Rare in modern warfare, therefore all the more special. To Jerry Mars the supreme high was the terror in an enemy's eyes at the moment of his deathwhen he slashed the blade across the jugular or plunged the bayonet. For one brief moment the man he killed was the most special person in the world. He belonged to Jerry. He was all his, body and soul, engaged in a mystical ritual of exchange: life for life. There was no greater gift. And no greater pleasure than the look in his deathmate's eyes as life passed from him. Jerry would kill for those eyes. Jerry did. And it made him stronger than his fears of weakness. He would have killed without Vietnam. The war confirmed his calling. It was in the fabric of his being. Like Rufus. |
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"Beautiful," he said, and threw the bird toward the ceiling and slipped out the gate. Rufus let out a deep-throated whine but did not move. He turned his head to Jerry. "Good boy." He would not attack until Jerry gave the command. |
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The chicken flapped across the floor, tried to take flight, but got no more than a foot in the air before flopping to the ground again. Jerry watched it run in frantic circles at the far end. Rufus lowered his head and emitted a savage growl that sent the bird squawking against the grate, where it managed to lock its talons in the wire. |
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Jerry checked his watch. Three, two, one. He pressed the timer button. "Rufus, kill!" |
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Rufus shot across the cage, catching the bird in midair by the neck. Instantly his jaws snapped off the squawking. Three shakes and the bird's head was torn from its body. Jerry checked his watch. Zero to dead in 5.6 seconds. Chipped a full three-tenths off his record. "Good boy." |
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Jerry opened a bottle of Evian water and pressed against the cage to watch Rufus finish it off, shake it in his jaws like a stuffed doll. He snapped up the head. A few loud crunches and it was gone. No gourmet, Rufus. He ate everything but the wings. Of course, Jerry |
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