“You work for me. I’m telling you to go check.”
“What if someone is shooting?”
“Then shoot back, you moron.”
“So you want me to shoot Presley?”
“We’ll both go.”
Kadir took his Ruger Redhawk out of the glove compartment and got out of the rental car.
On the minus side; someone was shooting, and Kadir had no desire to get shot.
On the plus side; they were in the middle of nowhere, so if they had to kill a few people, that shouldn’t be a problem.
FABLER ○ 7:33am
Presley put her weight behind the punch, and the only thing that saved Fabler’s nose from mushing was his quick tilt of the head so she connected with the base rather than the tip.
Fabler staggered back into the house, pulling her along, and then he released the gun, letting her have it.
While Fabler hadn’t intended to freak-out and shoot her—that had been the latest in an endless series of mental lapses—he was pleased he’d gone for the body shot instead of the head shot, and there didn’t seem to be any blood. Her chest would be bruised as hell, but the body armor had done its job and saved her life.
Ignoring the pain shouting at him from his face and knee, and putting aside his earlier mistakes, Fabler focused on his revised plan.
He rushed past Presley, heading for the patio door.
GRIM ○ 7:33am
He sprinted, full out, heading for the house as he shouted at Presley.
“DON’T KILL HIM!”
PRESLEY ○ 7:33am
The calm permeating Presley when death seemed eminent; adrenaline purged that calm. Presley felt able to run straight up the side of a building and punch out a street gang waiting on top.
For a moment, when Fabler released the KRISS and Presley brought it to bear, she almost shot the son of a bitch.
Not because Grim—that prick who didn’t take the kill shot when Fabler was ready to murder her—shouted not to do it.
And not because Fabler didn’t deserve it; the guy had clearly lost all control, and removing him from the world would be a mercy to Fabler and a blessing to humankind.
And not because Presley had an aversion to killing, even though she’d never killed before.
No, Presley was too selfish to pull the trigger and paint the living room interior with Fabler’s blood.
So when Fabler rushed past her, Presley stretched out the rifle stock, thrusting it between his running legs, tripping him to the floor. Then she swung it by the barrel, like a sledgehammer, catching him across the spine, hoping to paralyze the son of a bitch.
Fabler turned and stared at her, apparently not paralyzed.
Presley expected a look of pain.
Presley jabbed with the rifle, aiming for his chin, and Fabler knocked it aside with a forearm, then pivoted his hip.
Presley jumped over the sweep kick, and then lashed out with the rifle stock, catching him in the shoulder as Fabler used momentum to spin onto his knees.
Fabler took the hit, grabbing the rifle by the picatinny rail, ripping it from Presley’s hands as easily as taking a lollipop from a toddler.
Presley backed away, expecting him to raise the weapon and fire again. But Fabler surprised her by taking off down the hall.
Noise, behind her, and Grim ran up to Presley with a weapon in his hand. But it wasn’t his modified Glock carbine; it was a black handgun that looked a lot like it came out of the movie Robocop.
“You okay?”
She nodded. “He ran into his bedroom. He’s armed, and there are more guns in there.”
With his free hand, Grim unwound the strap off his neck and handed Presley the carbine. “Cover me.”
“Like you covered me?”
Grim winced like he’d gotten slapped. “We can’t kill him. You know that. Shoot to wound and back me up.”
He ran to Fabler’s bedroom, leaving Presley to ponder how this all went so bad so fast.
GRIM ○ 7:34am
Grim advanced while hunched over, heel-to-toe, keeping the taser out in front of him, his hips staying level so he didn’t bounce. Back in the day, he and Fabler would practice their approaches by balancing NyQuil cups full of water on the rails of their weapons, slow and steady.
He sidled up against the doorframe, next to the closed door, and used his cop voice.
“Fabler! You’re outnumbered! Give up!”
No response, either vocally or ballistically.
Grim made eye contact with Presley, finding her in a decent back-up position further down the hallway, on the opposite wall.
He held up three fingers, counted down, and then pushed the door in.
After listening for a second, he crouched and peeked into the bedroom at waist-height, spotting the open window, the blinds ripped off and on the floor.
Grim immediately dropped into the room onto his back, staring at Fabler, who was hiding alongside the door and already swinging the rifle. Grim knocked it away with his forearm, bringing up the taser, aiming for Fabler’s bare stomach.
He squeezed the trigger—
—but Fabler had his hand up.
The barbed probes shot out of the front cartridge—within a cloud of serial-numbered confetti—and stuck straight into Fabler’s palm.
Grim had trained with the X26P once, years ago, and the memory was vague. The bigger the spread between electrodes, the greater the chance to incapacitate. Holding the trigger would deliver multiple shocks per second, contracting the muscles by doing something with blood sugar or lactic acid or whatever. This caused immobility as the muscles locked up, and also hurt enough to deliver pain compliance.
Fabler’s face stretched into a grimace, his teeth gritted and eyes wide, while Grim held the trigger.
But Fabler didn’t drop. Maybe it was the short spread of the probes reducing the effectiveness. Or maybe Fabler was simply too crazy to let fifty thousand volts slow him down. After a jolt of six or seven seconds, Fabler managed to rip the barbs out of his hand, and then he hit Grim with the butt of his rifle, right in the forehead.
Stars swimming in his vision, Grim somehow managed to keep hold of the taser.
Fabler reared back the rifle again, his face a rictus of crazy.
Grim yanked out the spent cartridge. No time to load the spare, so he thrust the taser at Fabler’s calf, squeezing the trigger again. Without the barbs, the X26P functioned as a stun gun, and Fabler staggered backward, grunting.
Then Presley was in the room, yelling something, raising the carbine, and Fabler did some insane sidekick/leap/twist and knocked her gun away, followin
g up by smacking Presley on the side of the head.
Grim got to his knees, thrusting the taser forward, trying to connect with Fabler to shock him again, managing to touch him on the right thigh.
Again Fabler recoiled, and as Grim tried to pull the spare cartridge out from the battery magazine, Fabler planted a foot on Grim’s nose, laying him out flat.
Things went black for a moment, and Grim found himself shaking his head, trying to fight the dizziness, seeing Fabler wrestle with Presley for the carbine, tugging the strap off of her shoulder, quickly disassembling the frame and trigger assembly from the barrel and throwing them in opposite directions.
Grim raised up his hand, noticing that the taser was missing.
Fabler went for the window, tossing the KRISS out then getting his upper body through, and somehow Grim managed to grip his leg and hold on, and then Presley was helping and they pulled him back into the bedroom and onto the floor, face-first.
Fabler twisted around—the guy was made of coiled springs—and then on his feet, facing Presley and Grim, his fists raised.
Grim noticed his fists were already up. So were Presley’s.
Grim stepped up and threw a punch.
KADIR ○ 7:37am
With Doruk leading, and Kadir carefully following the larger man like he was a movable flesh-shield, they picked their way through the woods and came to a clearing.
“It’s a cabin.”
“I can see it’s a cabin.”
“Door is open.”
“You know we’re looking at the same thing, right?”
“I figured you couldn’t see because you’re so far behind me.”
“You hear that?”
Kadir didn’t hear anything, but the closer they got to the cabin, the more he hung back, not wanting to catch a bullet.
“Check the right side of the house. I’ll go left.”
Doruk waddled off. Kadir waited, trying to hear whatever Doruk had heard.
Curious, Kadir walked a wide perimeter around the side of the cabin, and saw an open window. He brought up the binoculars hanging around his neck.
Presley, the ex-cop, and a half-naked guy were punching the hell out of each other.
Half of Kadir wanted to sneak up, kill the two guys, and have some quality alone-time with Presley. The other half wanted to kick back with some popcorn and enjoy the spectacle of it all.
That side won out, mostly because guns could be in play.
PRESLEY ○ 7:37am
Presley moved in fast, feet apart, knees bent, chin down, eyes on Fabler’s. Often, the eyes would telegraph an attack before a punch or kick was thrown. Fabler didn’t make that mistake, but with his attention divided between her and Grim, Presley wanted to know when he looked away.
She aimed for his left kidney, hooking in low and strong, driving her fist like Fabler was made of wet paper and the punch would go right through him, twisting her hips and straightening her knees and putting her whole body into it.
Fabler managed to bunch-up before her blow landed, but his grunt conveyed pain.
She danced back as Fabler’s eyes went to her and he swatted and missed by inches, then Grim threw a vicious right cross, catching Fabler across the jaw. A slow motion curl of blood arced out from Fabler’s lips, and Presley ducked under it and went after his right kidney, getting in under the ribs, picturing it as a water balloon she wanted to pop.
Fabler couldn’t protect himself in time, and he hunched over after her hand hit home, his eyes squeezing shut.
The foot came out of nowhere, catching Presley in the chest, igniting the bruises from the .45 rounds to the sternum. As Presley fell backward she watched as Fabler, impossibly fast, threw an elbow at Grim’s chin, snapping his head up, stretching out his neck and leaving it open to any number of lethal blows.
But Fabler didn’t crush Grim’s trachea, or his Adam’s apple, or dig at his jugular or carotid, or target his vagus nerve, or rabbit punch his spine.
Instead, Fabler went for the balls, kicking Grim between his legs so hard that Presley felt it.
Then Fabler turned and launched for the open window again, and Presley watched as her money, and Brooklyn’s life, slipped through and took off into the yard.
FABLER ○ 7:38am
When his feet hit the grass he grabbed the rifle and ran, not sure where to go, but knowing he had to get away. He hurt in various places, but no injury seemed debilitating, no pain so severe it slowed him down.
Warm outside, so exposure wouldn’t be a problem for a few hours, but he doubted anyone would pick up a hitchhiker wearing only boxer-briefs. His best chance was the nearest neighbor, two kilometers northeast.
He sprinted for the tree line, and something caught his eye.
Fabler stopped, eyes wide and staring, unable to take a breath as the bushes shook.
Fabler took a quick look around, waiting for the light to hit him, bracing for it.
The light didn’t appear. But something did, rushing him from behind, coming in low and hooking his legs.
Fabler went down, and Presley slithered behind him and snaked an arm around his neck, clinching it in, her legs locking around his waist.
Her biceps flexed, pressing against Fabler’s carotid.
Fabler tapped her, but they were no longer training.
Panic enveloped Fabler like quicksand.
He tried to bring up the KRISS, but he’d fallen on it, the barrel pinned beneath his butt.
He thought of Lori.
He thought of that night.
He tried to suck in oxygen, but Presley held too tightly.
He thought of Hoopland, the dead journalist that he and Grim found in Iraq. His eyes blinking, mouth trying to speak, even as the terrorist sawed his head off his shoulders.
Fabler tried to turn over, but Presley had him good and tight.
Seconds passed.
Everything went fuzzy.
Then everything went dim.
While her choke hold was exceptional, Presley hadn’t remembered to tuck her chin into Fabler’s shoulder, which would have protected her face.
Fabler leaned into the choke, making it tighter, and right before passing out he snapped his head back, smashing Presley in the nose.
She released him, and Fabler rolled away, sucking in a breath, trying to find his balance as the blood and oxygen rushed back to his brain. He got on all fours, got his knees under him, glanced at Presley’s dripping red face, glanced at the tree line for whatever was hiding there, and then noticed movement to his left.
Fabler hadn’t enjoyed getting zapped. It ranked in the top five most unpleasant experiences of his life. Unfortunately, Grim had loaded a new dart cartridge and had it pointing his way. Fabler brought up the KRISS, but Presley had recovered fast, kicking it to the side.
As Fabler fumbled for the gun, hanging from the strap around his shoulder, Presley drove him back with a series of kicks. They were superficial, landing on his arms and shoulders, but he took the pain and finally got his hand on the stock and as he brought the rifle to bear she threw something at him.
A moment later something stung his eyes, wet and warm, and he blinked them and tried to rub away the hurt.
Then Fabler’s entire body seized up and he released the gun and dropped to the ground, rigid and vibrating in agony, Grim standing over him as he squeezed the taser trigger.
The pain went on and on, like a full-body charley horse, and even as he fought to move his muscles, Fabler had no idea where he’d been shot. His whole body was a clenched fist, and he couldn’t pinpoint where the probes hit him.
“Take his weapon and cuff him.”
As the electricity continued to twist his body into knots, Fabler was vaguely aware of someone pulling away the rifle, digging a knee into his back, grabbing his wrist.
“I can’t move his arm.”
“Okay, I’m going to let go of the trigger. Do it fast.”
What Happened to Lori Page 27