Six Years
Page 27
It was a long shot, maybe even an impossibility, but once the cuff snapped down and I was locked into place and Otto went to work on me with his little toolbox . . .
I had no choice.
Otto was prepared for me to rush at him. What he wasn’t prepared for was my going in the other direction.
I tried to relax. Timing was everything here. I was tall. Without that, I didn’t have a chance. I was also counting on the fact that Otto wouldn’t want to shoot me, that they truly did want me—as Bob had implied with his threat about shooting students instead of me—alive.
I would have a second. Less. Tenths of a second maybe.
Otto reached toward the cuff. When his fingers found it, I made my move.
Using the hand gripping the bar for leverage, I swung my legs up—but not to kick Otto. That would be pointless and expected. Instead, I pushed off, making my long body horizontal. I wasn’t exactly flying across the van like some veteran martial artist, but with my height and all those damn core exercises I’d been doing, I was able to snap my leg around like a whip.
I aimed the heel of my shoe for the side of Bob’s head.
Otto reacted fast. At the exact moment my heel hit pay dirt, Otto tackled me in midair, dropping me hard to the ground. He grabbed me around the neck and started to squeeze.
But he was too late.
My kick had landed on Bob’s skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob’s hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me—and the gun—into a rolling heap.
It was on.
Otto still had his arm around my neck, but without the gun, it was just man against man. He was a good, experienced fighter. I was a good, experienced fighter. He was probably six feet tall and 180 pounds. I’m nearly six-six and weigh 230.
Advantage: Me.
I smashed him hard against the back of the van. His grip on my neck loosened. I smashed him again. He let go. My eyes searched the van floor for the gun.
I couldn’t see it.
The van was still veering right, then left, as Bob tried to regain control.
I stumbled forward, landing on my knees. I heard a skittering noise, and there, in the corner in front of me, I saw the gun. I crawled toward it, but Otto grabbed me by the leg and pulled me back. We had a brief tug-of-war, me trying to get closer to the gun, him pulling me back. I tried to stomp on his face, but I missed.
Then Otto lowered his head and bit hard into my leg.
I let out a howl of pain.
He held on to the meaty part of my calf by the teeth. Panicked, I kicked out harder. He held on. The pain was making my vision grow cloudy again. The van mercifully swerved again. Otto flew to the right. I rolled to the left. He landed near the tool chest. His fingers disappeared inside of it.
Where the hell was that gun?
I couldn’t find it.
From the front, Bob said, “Give up now and we won’t hurt more students.”
But I wasn’t listening to that crap. I looked left and right. No sign of the gun.
Otto pulled his hand back into view. He had the box cutter now. He hit the button with his thumb. The blade popped out.
Suddenly my size advantage was irrelevant.
He started toward me, leading with the sharp edge. I was cornered and trapped. No sign of the gun. No real chance of jumping him without getting sliced up good. That left me with only one option.
When in doubt, go with what has already worked.
I turned and punched Bob in the back of the head.
Once again the van swerved, sending both Otto and me airborne. When I landed, I saw an opening. I lowered my head and dived at him. Otto still had the box cutter. He lashed out at me, but I grabbed his wrist. Once again I tried to use my weight advantage.
Up front, Bob was having a tougher time controlling the car.
Otto and I started rolling. I kept one hand on his wrist. I wrapped my legs around his body. I jammed my free forearm into the crook of Otto’s neck, trying to get at his windpipe. He lowered his chin to block. Still I had my forearm against his neck. If I could just worm my arm in a little deeper . . .
That was when it happened.
Bob slammed on the brakes. The van stopped short. The momentum lifted Otto and me into the air and sent us crashing hard against the floor. The thing was, my forearm stayed pinned against his throat throughout. Think about it. My weight plus the velocity of the car and the sudden stop—it all turned my forearm into a pile driver.
I heard a horrible crinkling sound, like dozens of damp twigs snapping. Otto’s windpipe gave way like wet papier-mâché. My arm hit something hard—I could actually feel the floor of the van through the skin and cartilage of his neck. Otto’s entire body went slack. I looked down at the pretty-boy face. The eyes were open, and now they did not just appear lifeless—they genuinely were.
I almost hoped for a blink. There was none.
Otto was dead.
I rolled off him.
“Otto?”
It was Bob. From the driver’s seat, I saw him reach into his pocket. I wondered whether he was reaching for a gun, but I was not in the mood to hang around and find out. I grabbed the lock on the back door of the van and pulled it up. I pulled the handle and took one last look back as the back door opened.
Yep, Bob had a gun, and it was aimed right at me.
I ducked as the bullet landed above my head. So much for not wanting me dead. I rolled out of the back of the van and landed hard on my right shoulder. I saw headlights heading toward me. My eyes widened. A car was headed directly for me.
I ducked and rolled yet again. Tires screeched. The car passed so close to me I felt the dirt kick up into my face. Horns began to honk. Someone cursed.
Bob’s van began to move. The feeling of relief flooded my veins. I clawed my way to the relative safety of the left shoulder. With all the cars flying by, I figured Bob would drive away.
He didn’t.
The van was now on the same shoulder, maybe twenty yards from where I lay sprawled.
With the gun still in his hand, Bob jumped out of the driver’s-side door. I was spent. I didn’t think I could move, but here’s the thing: When someone has a gun, stuff like pain and exhaustion become, at best, secondary.
Again I had only one option.
I leapt straight into the bush off the side of the road. I didn’t look first. I didn’t test it out. I just leapt. In the darkness I hadn’t seen the incline. I tumbled down through the brush, letting gravity take me farther away from the road. I expected to reach the bottom soon, but it seemed to take a long time.
I tumbled long and hard. My head smacked against a rock. My legs hit a tree. My ribs hit . . . I don’t even know what. I kept rolling. I tumbled through the thicket, tumbled and tumbled until my eyes began to close and the world turned black and still.
I had no choice.
Otto was prepared for me to rush at him. What he wasn’t prepared for was my going in the other direction.
I tried to relax. Timing was everything here. I was tall. Without that, I didn’t have a chance. I was also counting on the fact that Otto wouldn’t want to shoot me, that they truly did want me—as Bob had implied with his threat about shooting students instead of me—alive.
I would have a second. Less. Tenths of a second maybe.
Otto reached toward the cuff. When his fingers found it, I made my move.
Using the hand gripping the bar for leverage, I swung my legs up—but not to kick Otto. That would be pointless and expected. Instead, I pushed off, making my long body horizontal. I wasn’t exactly flying across the van like some veteran martial artist, but with my height and all those damn core exercises I’d been doing, I was able to snap my leg around like a whip.
I aimed the heel of my shoe for the side of Bob’s head.
Otto reacted fast. At the exact moment my heel hit pay dirt, Otto tackled me in midair, dropping me hard to the ground. He grabbed me around the neck and started to squeeze.
But he was too late.
My kick had landed on Bob’s skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob’s hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me—and the gun—into a rolling heap.
It was on.
Otto still had his arm around my neck, but without the gun, it was just man against man. He was a good, experienced fighter. I was a good, experienced fighter. He was probably six feet tall and 180 pounds. I’m nearly six-six and weigh 230.
Advantage: Me.
I smashed him hard against the back of the van. His grip on my neck loosened. I smashed him again. He let go. My eyes searched the van floor for the gun.
I couldn’t see it.
The van was still veering right, then left, as Bob tried to regain control.
I stumbled forward, landing on my knees. I heard a skittering noise, and there, in the corner in front of me, I saw the gun. I crawled toward it, but Otto grabbed me by the leg and pulled me back. We had a brief tug-of-war, me trying to get closer to the gun, him pulling me back. I tried to stomp on his face, but I missed.
Then Otto lowered his head and bit hard into my leg.
I let out a howl of pain.
He held on to the meaty part of my calf by the teeth. Panicked, I kicked out harder. He held on. The pain was making my vision grow cloudy again. The van mercifully swerved again. Otto flew to the right. I rolled to the left. He landed near the tool chest. His fingers disappeared inside of it.
Where the hell was that gun?
I couldn’t find it.
From the front, Bob said, “Give up now and we won’t hurt more students.”
But I wasn’t listening to that crap. I looked left and right. No sign of the gun.
Otto pulled his hand back into view. He had the box cutter now. He hit the button with his thumb. The blade popped out.
Suddenly my size advantage was irrelevant.
He started toward me, leading with the sharp edge. I was cornered and trapped. No sign of the gun. No real chance of jumping him without getting sliced up good. That left me with only one option.
When in doubt, go with what has already worked.
I turned and punched Bob in the back of the head.
Once again the van swerved, sending both Otto and me airborne. When I landed, I saw an opening. I lowered my head and dived at him. Otto still had the box cutter. He lashed out at me, but I grabbed his wrist. Once again I tried to use my weight advantage.
Up front, Bob was having a tougher time controlling the car.
Otto and I started rolling. I kept one hand on his wrist. I wrapped my legs around his body. I jammed my free forearm into the crook of Otto’s neck, trying to get at his windpipe. He lowered his chin to block. Still I had my forearm against his neck. If I could just worm my arm in a little deeper . . .
That was when it happened.
Bob slammed on the brakes. The van stopped short. The momentum lifted Otto and me into the air and sent us crashing hard against the floor. The thing was, my forearm stayed pinned against his throat throughout. Think about it. My weight plus the velocity of the car and the sudden stop—it all turned my forearm into a pile driver.
I heard a horrible crinkling sound, like dozens of damp twigs snapping. Otto’s windpipe gave way like wet papier-mâché. My arm hit something hard—I could actually feel the floor of the van through the skin and cartilage of his neck. Otto’s entire body went slack. I looked down at the pretty-boy face. The eyes were open, and now they did not just appear lifeless—they genuinely were.
I almost hoped for a blink. There was none.
Otto was dead.
I rolled off him.
“Otto?”
It was Bob. From the driver’s seat, I saw him reach into his pocket. I wondered whether he was reaching for a gun, but I was not in the mood to hang around and find out. I grabbed the lock on the back door of the van and pulled it up. I pulled the handle and took one last look back as the back door opened.
Yep, Bob had a gun, and it was aimed right at me.
I ducked as the bullet landed above my head. So much for not wanting me dead. I rolled out of the back of the van and landed hard on my right shoulder. I saw headlights heading toward me. My eyes widened. A car was headed directly for me.
I ducked and rolled yet again. Tires screeched. The car passed so close to me I felt the dirt kick up into my face. Horns began to honk. Someone cursed.
Bob’s van began to move. The feeling of relief flooded my veins. I clawed my way to the relative safety of the left shoulder. With all the cars flying by, I figured Bob would drive away.
He didn’t.
The van was now on the same shoulder, maybe twenty yards from where I lay sprawled.
With the gun still in his hand, Bob jumped out of the driver’s-side door. I was spent. I didn’t think I could move, but here’s the thing: When someone has a gun, stuff like pain and exhaustion become, at best, secondary.
Again I had only one option.
I leapt straight into the bush off the side of the road. I didn’t look first. I didn’t test it out. I just leapt. In the darkness I hadn’t seen the incline. I tumbled down through the brush, letting gravity take me farther away from the road. I expected to reach the bottom soon, but it seemed to take a long time.
I tumbled long and hard. My head smacked against a rock. My legs hit a tree. My ribs hit . . . I don’t even know what. I kept rolling. I tumbled through the thicket, tumbled and tumbled until my eyes began to close and the world turned black and still.
