The Wild One

by Nick Petrie

  They hadn’t figured right.

  To be fair, nobody would have.

  * * *

  —

  The first cop closed and grabbed Peter’s wrist to lock the joint and turn him. It was the first step toward putting him down.

  But Peter’s wrists were slick with blood and the blast of white static surged through him like a high-voltage current. His training kicked in as he slipped the grip but accelerated the spin. He bent his arms at shoulder height, came around at speed, and slammed the back of his left elbow into the cop’s temple, swinging from his toes.

  Still in cuffs, he couldn’t give it everything, but he gave it a lot.

  The cop flew sideways and pinwheeled to the asphalt, eyes rolled back in his head.

  Peter reached down and plucked the man’s baton from the sheath on his belt.

  As he straightened to confront his next opponent, high on battle rage and adrenaline, he flicked his wrist down and out to snap the telescopic baton to its full length, three sections of spring steel and a heavy striking tip.

  Peter had carried a baton on patrols in Iraq as an effective nonlethal weapon, and he liked it. The checkered grip felt good in his hand, and there was a disturbing, primitive satisfaction in hitting something, or someone, with a stick. The static screamed its approval.

  The other burly cop was already coming fast on Peter’s blind side and Peter turned to meet him. If the man registered what had happened to his partner, it didn’t show in his face. He should have pulled back and slowed things down. He should have tried for another compliance hold. Maybe it was too late to reconsider, maybe he didn’t care. He adjusted left in a late attempt to sidestep the baton, then dropped his shoulder and drove his fist toward Peter’s gut with the full weight of his body behind it.

  It wasn’t a tactical move, but the strike of a brute-force brawler planning to power Peter to the ground. Under normal circumstances, it would have done the job. Peter would drop and the cop would kneel on Peter’s back until someone showed up with leg irons or a Taser or a syringe full of large-animal tranquilizer.

  That wasn’t how it went.

  Instead, Peter slid left to slip the body slam, the baton raised in a two-handed parry to push aside the punch, then whipped the baton around and down into the other man’s extended right forearm. He’d aimed for the nerve cluster but heard the crack of bone, even over the scuffle of boots and the roar of the wind.

  The man’s eyes flared with the pain and he pulled his arm back automatically. But he didn’t stop coming. He set his feet and lashed out with his open left hand to strike Peter’s neck and jaw and push him back.

  Peter pivoted on his rear foot and moved his head to the left. The other man’s hand found only air. Peter dropped his hips, snapped the baton down, and smashed the heavy steel tip into the other man’s leading knee. It gave way under the blow and his momentum carried him down. He landed on his side, broken arm held protectively against his chest, bearded face grim, scrabbling at his equipment belt with his free hand.

  Peter kicked him in the joint of his left shoulder. It knocked him flat with the shoulder locked up and his face white. In serious hurt and down to a single useful limb, the man scrabbled backward like a crab with missing legs, desperate to get out of the fight.

  Peter filled his lungs with salty North Atlantic wind, feeling that delicious, terrible joy that only came in the full fury of a fight, that made him want to howl at the moon.

  The two officers with Hjálmar had held back by the larger SUV, not wanting to get in the way. Now they glanced at each other, expressionless, and reached for their own weapons.

  Peter had to get out of these goddamn handcuffs. The man he’d hit in the temple was just now raising his head off the ground, still hearing chimes. Peter saw a key ring on his belt, with the distinctive shape he needed. He dropped a knee to the man’s chest, but before his blood-slick fingers could disconnect the ring, the other two officers snapped out their batons. The metal-on-metal clack was as distinctive a sound as a shotgun racking a round.

  The chrome baton tips gleamed in the headlights as the pair of officers approached.

  Peter abandoned the keys and backpedaled to give himself room.

  These two were a little older, with gray in their beards, but no less large or capable. They’d been crisp and professional before, confident in their skills, maybe thinking their boss was overreacting. But the wild man before them was no late-night drunk. He’d taken down two brother officers in six seconds flat.

  So they came in slow and with serious intent, feet firm, shoulders loose, hips angled for stability. Bright baton tips up and ready between their neck and shoulder, free hands raised to deflect or grapple. Two on one.

  Peter held his baton in the same ready position. He saw the officers taking inventory of his limitations. Still stuck in the cuffs, he didn’t have a free hand, which was a serious disadvantage in a stick fight. The cuffs also limited his swing and the roll of his wrists. One eye was still swollen shut.

  Long past caring, Peter showed them his canines in a wolfish smile.

  50

  The baton was a force multiplier, its heavy tip moving far faster than any hand, and with more devastating force. The butt of the handle, held in the fist, could also wreak havoc at close quarters, pounding the ribs or neck or face. Any blow that truly connected would be consequential. A strike to the head could kill.

  But a stick fight between trained men was more than a fight with sticks. It was a technical duel using the baton as both weapon and shield, to attack and parry and attack again, faster than the eye could follow. The secondary hand was equally important. The flesh too fragile to block a heavy baton blow, the open hand was used instead to deflect or redirect the other man’s baton hand in mid-swing, creating an opening for a counterstrike or an immobilizing joint lock.

  The cops spoke to each other in Icelandic, then split their position, one circling to Peter’s right to get behind him. With Peter’s limited vision, this only improved their odds. These guys knew what they were doing.

  Before the two graybeards could get comfortable, Peter feinted at the man in front of him, who moved his free hand forward to deflect Peter’s wrist and swung his baton sideways to parry the blow. But neither arrived. Instead, Peter pivoted to the second man and snapped the heavy steel tip along the length of the blocking baton and into the fragile bones of the cop’s hand.

  He winced and his weapon fell to the pavement, but he made no sound as he stepped forward and jammed his free forearm inside Peter’s guard and up through the space between Peter’s cuffed wrists. Then he bent his elbow and cranked his arm back from the shoulder, using the cuff chain to capture Peter’s hands.

  It was a good move, perfectly executed, accepting the pain to immobilize Peter for his partner. There was something beautiful about it. Peter hadn’t seen it coming.

  But he didn’t fight the trap. Instead he used his own body weight to swing the big man around like a square dancer, directly into the path of his partner’s accelerating baton. The first man’s thick shoulders were hunched with effort, and the heavy blow landed on his bunched muscles instead of shattering his collarbone.

  Still, the pain was enough to make him reflexively relax his arm. Peter slid free and released his attacker to slam ass-first into his partner. Both stumbled, reeling, but somehow kept their feet. Peter scooped up the dropped baton in his right hand, holding it backward along the length of his forearm. Now he had a shield.

  The two cops found their balance and began to circle again. One man had a baton, the other nothing but a hurt hand, but he was still in the game. The first two cops stayed well back and nursed their hurts. Hjálmar, looking over his shoulder, walked toward the farthest vehicle in the roadblock.

  Peter needed these capable men out of commission. He needed his pack and his keys. He didn’t want to give them time to regr
oup. Better they were off balance and reactive.

  So he attacked both men at once.

  He swung fast and hard, striking at hands, wrists, forearms, and knees, driving them back but not landing anything. They were playing defense, taking his measure, giving him room, controlling the play.

  The handcuffs were the problem. With his wrists locked together, he was slower and his reach was limited. The cop with the baton was slipping or blocking everything Peter threw at him. And Peter didn’t have that crucial free secondary hand to create space to strike.

  Peter would get tired before they did. Hell, he was tired already. He’d make a mistake. He had to force some kind of change. He had to get out of there.

  For the two graybearded cops, holding back was definitely the right tactical move. But they didn’t like it, Peter could tell. He’d taken down two of their own, and their blood was up. Peter understood, he’d feel the same way. But he wasn’t going to get anywhere unless they made a move. So he let his baton tip fall out of position, just a little. The kind of thing a tired man might do. An opening.

  The big cop with the baton saw it and stepped in, swinging hard, trying to beat Peter down with brute force. Peter held up his right forearm with its weak, improvised shield. The other man’s baton slammed down like a hammer blow. Peter managed to keep hold of his shield, but his wrist ached with the power of the strike. He was lucky his forearm wasn’t broken.

  But he hadn’t managed to counterattack, and now the officer with the baton was truly after Peter, using his superior mobility to press his advantage. At the same time, the officer with the broken hand circled around on Peter’s weak side, a distraction he couldn’t afford to ignore. Peter circled and sidestepped, blocked two more heavy blows and counterattacked, but still wasn’t making real contact.

  His baton shield was bending under the onslaught. His right arm ached. Time was not his friend. In his next attack, he swung just a little too wide, opening up his torso, willing the cop with the baton to see it and make a move.

  When the man committed to his swing, planning to end the fight by breaking Peter’s ribs, Peter brought his shielded elbow sharply back to slip the blow, then continued the pivot to kick the other man on the hip, knocking him off balance.

  The man wobbled. Peter brought his baton down and knocked him on the side of the knee. The cop made a face, shifted his weight, then swung for Peter’s head, but Peter cranked his baton around and smashed the other man’s forearm hard enough to break bone. The baton flew away and he went down hard.

  The last cop standing had no baton and one good hand. He fumbled for his pepper spray, not that it would work in this wind. Peter smacked his gloved hand with the steel striking tip, then thumped the man’s forward shinbone, a sensitive spot. When the cop stumbled back, Peter whipped the baton around and rapped the man’s opposite ankle.

  He yelped and fell on his ass. Peter kicked him in the chest to knock him flat, and again in the ribs to roll him onto his face. He knelt on the man’s thrashing thighs and tore the keys off his belt ring, then got to his feet.

  When the cuffs fell clattering to the asphalt, the four injured men scrambled away however they could, big veteran officers with fear clear on their bearded faces. Peter stood erect on the snowy road in the wind and cold and dark, breathing hard, feeling loose and wild and free. The crackle of static like something alive inside him.

  Something he knew might just eat him from the inside out.

  The adrenaline would only last so long. Soon would come the shakes and the crash. Black depression, shame, and regret.

  They were officers of the law, sworn to their duty. They’d done nothing but try to keep the peace.

  And Peter had hurt them. Cracked their joints, broken their bones. Smashed them down like cheap toys.

  At least he hadn’t killed anyone.

  Not today, anyway.

  * * *

  —

  He stalked toward Hjálmar, his back against the SUV, rear hatch wide open. Peter’s pack held his new coat down on the road, but the sleeves flapped in the whipping wind. Peter could see Hjálmar’s pain and anger over his fallen men.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said. But he was still riding the static. His eyes gleamed like he could see in the dark.

  “You will be.” Hjálmar held something along the back of his leg, maybe a baton, hoping Peter wouldn’t notice. Overmatched but still ready to step up. Peter liked that.

  Hjálmar had surely called for reinforcements, although the roadblock was many kilometers from any town large enough to have resident police. The four battered cops were hunched together on the side of the road. Peter stood between them and their vehicles, facing Hjálmar.

  “Step away.” Peter had to raise his voice over the sound of the gale. “I just want my gear and I’ll be gone.” His pack held his keys and phones and wallet. He’d need the coat in the days to come. It might be the only thing that kept him alive.

  “What do you think happens now?” Hjálmar said. “Where do you hope to go?” Peter knew it was a tactic, stalling for time, allowing the four beaten officers to regroup. But it was also a legitimate question. Peter didn’t have an answer.

  Instead, he raised his baton and advanced. “Step back or I move you back.”

  Hjálmar moved his hand out from behind his leg. It held a flat black pistol, pointed down at his side. “Get on your knees. Please.”

  Peter stepped closer. “I thought Icelandic police didn’t carry guns.”

  “Some have them in the car.” Hjálmar raised the pistol two-handed, the muzzle now pointed at the road near Peter’s feet. “On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now.”

  Peter was eight feet away, then six. “You spend a lot of time with that weapon, Hjálmar? You know what it will do to a man at close range? You want to see that every time you close your eyes?”

  Behind him, Peter felt the injured officers gathering themselves.

  The barrel rose to center on Peter’s chest, Hjálmar’s face pale in the dark night. Peter was four feet away, now two. The muzzle described a small circle in the air. Hjálmar was shaking.

  “Pull the trigger or put it down. Walk away and we’re done. Nobody else gets hurt.”

  Peter closed the gap. Arms down, hands bloody from his torn wrists, he stood with the muzzle tight against his chest. “Harder than it looks, isn’t it?”

  Hjálmar’s shaking got worse. His finger was inside the trigger guard, but there was no pressure on the trigger. Peter abruptly swept the pistol from the older man’s hand and away.

  Backing toward the rear of the SUV, Hjálmar seemed relieved.

  Peter glanced after the pistol, now buried in the snow somewhere beyond the edge of the road. He’d meant to keep hold of it, but his hands were clumsy in the cold. He’d never find it before they came for him.

  Instead he stuck one arm into his snowy coat, then the other, while the still-rising wind tried to tear it free. With fumbling fingers, he fished his keys from the top pocket of the pack, and his orange-handled knife. The blade was very sharp. It sliced effortlessly through the sidewalls of the police tires, over and over. They wouldn’t come after him without a tow truck.

  As he walked past the open back of Hjálmar’s SUV, he saw a small bag, faded blue with shoulder straps. Óskar’s Lego bookbag. The boy would want his things. He shoved the bag under his arm and turned to go.

  Then he remembered what Hjálmar had put in his breast pocket. He put out his hand. “Give me my passport.”

  The commissioner had recovered his dignity. “I will not.” Now they had to shout to be heard over the wind. “You will be in an Icelandic prison for the next ten years, or twenty. I guarantee it. Unless you face extradition for crimes committed elsewhere.”

  “I could have killed your men.”

  “I will mention your restraint at your trial.” Hjálmar ges
tured at his downed officers. “How many men will go to hospital because of you? Will walk with a cane?”

  “I’ll add that to my long list of regrets,” Peter said, and meant it. “My passport. Now.”

  Hjálmar reached inside his jacket and withdrew the small blue book. He gripped it firmly between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. Even though he held it down by his waist, the storm wind made the thick paper rattle.

  Peter stepped closer, hand out and open.

  Looking Peter in the eye, Hjálmar threw the passport straight up, as hard as he could.

  The wind caught the little booklet. The cover opened and the pages fluttered like wings. The passport lifted high, rising into the night sky until it was lost in darkness.

  Peter growled.

  Hjálmar raised his chin. “We are a nation of laws. We will find you. You will be punished.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Peter said. “When you find me, I’ll have Óskar.” He looked the older man hard in the face. “Make sure you get him to a safe place. Do you understand me?”

  Hjálmar stared back without an answer.

  Peter climbed into the Defender and used the heavy bumper to push through the roadblock, then roared northeast toward the gap in the mountains.

  51

  He left the main highway just before Blönduós, headed north on a narrow road between jagged mountains and the raging sea. The storm was fully on him now, the snow coming fast and hard.

  He gripped the wheel firmly to stop his hands from shaking. The adrenaline had burned itself out and left him an empty husk. He’d seen no police since the roadblock, nor any other pursuers, although he knew they were behind him somewhere, gathering.

  In the aftermath of the fight, the wave of dizziness had returned twice. Peter didn’t know the cause, but it didn’t matter. He’d been tired before, and sick, too. He was strong. He’d be fine. He had work to do.