All of a sudden, the clank of a sword being drawn overlapped with the sound of a gunshot. Splashes from bullets striking near Hugue's feet splattered one after the other as he jumped to avoid being hit. And the stone pavement blasted apart wherever it was gouged by bullets, causing stony fragments to hurtle toward the swordsman from all directions. Hugue didn't counterattack, though. Dodging bullets by a hair with his sword drawn from its scabbard, he thrashed through the neighboring streetlamp. The moment Tres edged away from the streetlamp that was falling toward him, Hugue's body balled up, literally rolling into a side street.
"You won't get away, Sword Dancer!" shouted Tres.
Listening to Tres' voice trailing behind him, Hugue exchanged his empty magazine and ran pell-mell through the unlit streets. I can't die yet! He remembered swearing over the sounds of ferocious thunder that he couldn't die until he killed the tribe—the one who'd stolen his sister before his eyes—ten years ago. Was it his turbid thoughts or his power of concentration, diminished by exhaustion, that was leading Hugue into danger? It was when Hugue approached the corner of a twisted alley and realized that he was paying attention only to what was behind him that he became aware of his own naiveté.
"Caught target within effective firing range. Open fire," Tres shouted.
If Hugue had heard the monotone voice over the stone wall right next to him and jumped back a second later, Hugue's body undoubtedly would've been torn apart and scattered into meat fragments. Following the rain of bullets that grazed the tip of his nose, a short shadow wrapped in a flawless cassock appeared, breaking through the wall.
"Target in sight," announced Tres. Dusty with stucco, the killing machine raised his gun. The red light of the laser sight burst forth, lighting up the left side of Hugue's chest. "Fire!"
The Jericho M-13 Deus Irae—the largest battle handgun in the world—bared its thirty-millimeter fangs in the air toward Hugue, who instinctively blocked his body with his sword.
However, it was Tres' body that was thrown backward by a spray of bullets that fired sideways. His body, close to four hundred forty pounds, was forced to the side by countless rounds that struck him with savage speed, and his cassock, which had been turned into a honeycomb, scattered around the area like rags.
"Get on, Father Watteau!" said a voice. Seconds later, the sound of an engine roared like a beast, followed by a dazzling white flash that nearly blinded Hugue. Then, a motorbike sped from the alley, causing water to spray up on either side of it, and came to a sudden stop next to the priest, who still didn't understand what had happened. "What are you doing? Get on — hurry!"
The young man motioned toward the tandem seat with his chin. His face was obscured by his black raincoat and goggles as he shouted angrily, engaging the clutch with his tall leather boots. "I'm your ally — at least for now!"
Hugue, still silent, didn't jump onto the seat because he believed that the man in black was his ally, rather because a beam of red light was rising, pushing through the rubble into the stream of rain. In the darkness, the laser sight drew a line, catching Hugue and his rescuer.
"Go!" Hugue shouted, hurling a dagger drawn from its sheath toward the short figure. The motorbike took off so powerfully that it could've taken flight, but the bullet narrowly missed the engine muffler because the dagger diverted the shot.
"Hang on tight, Father Hugue!" yelled the man.
Hugue had thought that the young man gripping the handlebars was shouting something, but he couldn't catch his voice, which was drowned out by the sound of the torrential downpour.