Page 39 of Lone Spy

Martin takes another step. The needle comes up—the thin metal glinting in the bright lights. The siren blares.

I give up my search and just grab his wrist, but he's much stronger than me. His weight bears down, my back presses into the open cabinet behind me.

Metal digs into my lower back, scraping my shirt up as I slide down it. Sweat stings my smoke-strained eyes. His other arm comes up, a sharp fist to my stomach.

I bow over it, taking his hand holding the needle down with me, forcing it suddenly close to his thigh. I jam it forward, desperate, crazed, and with enough momentum that it pierces through his pants.

"Fuck!" he screams.

His forearm tenses to pull it out, but I jam the plunger home. He rips it out and his fist opens, dropping the empty syringe. Then that hand grabs my throat. He lifts me, slamming my head into the cabinets behind me so hard that stars dance across my vision.

He's glaring at me, glasses askew, lips pulled back. I scratch at his forearm but it's like digging nails into a tree limb—all I'm going to do is leave marks in the bark.

I bring my knee up into his groin. He grunts and his hold loosens enough for me to tear free. I throw myself onto the gurney—the only place to go—but before I can get anywhere he's got a meaty fist in my hair. I scream, the desperate sound burning my injured throat.

He drags me back; my nails claw at the rough sheet. The cool crinkle of a plastic-wrapped tool touches my fingers. I clutch my fist around it. My back presses to his front. He growls in my ear and something inside me breaks.

It snaps.

No fucking way.

I am so done with this bullshit.

No more.

Hard knuckles grindagainst my scalp, fingers twisted in my hair, controlling my head. My body bows away from the man behind me. The harsh sting of antiseptic mixes with the rank musk of him. Of us. Of two people fighting like the reaper is in the room—and only one of us will escape him.

The siren wails, bathing the rattling space in its cacophony. I rip at the plastic packaging in my hand, unseeing.

Cool metal meets my heated skin. A sharp blade slices the tip of my middle finger. Yes! My heart rages against my rib cage. I grip the roughened handle of the scalpel, the sharp blade meant for precision facing up.

Martin's large hand wraps around my throat, his thumb knotting under my jaw. He squeezes. Air cuts off. I don't give any more fucks.

I stab the blade up over my shoulder, digging it into him—nothing precise about it. A sharp sound of surprise. Rip it out. Blood spurts, hot against my cheek. Stab it in again. He snarls.

The hand around my throat loosens. Wrenching the blade out again, I try to twist away but his fingers are still tangled in my hair. The back of my left shoulder presses against his heaving chest. I can see his throat now—sweat-slicked and peppered with black stubble. Adam's apple bobbing—a moving target I don't plan on missing.

I slash at it, manic, desperate. Done.

A line of skin opens, blood flooding from it. He throws me. My right side hits the gurney's thin mattress hard. My teeth clack. The scalpel, slick with blood, jerks free, skittering across the floor—the sound of it lost to the siren—and under the chair Martin was sitting in.

Fuck.

Martin's hands are on his throat, blood eases between thick fingers. It's not flowing fast enough to kill him. His glasses are gone, eyes lit with rage. Welcome to my world, fucker.

I roll off the gurney, hitting the hard vibrating floor and crawl toward where I saw the scalpel disappear.

"What's going on back there?" The driver’s voice comes through the intercom. A hand wraps around my ankle. It starts to drag me back. I grab for an oxygen tank velcroed next to the chair.

A strangled sound escapes me as my arms strain to hold on. Martin doesn't relent. The tank breaks free from the wall. I slide, turning onto my back, bringing the tank around.

Martin's bent over me, blood dripping from his wounds onto my legs. I swing the tank at his head. It connects with a clang loud enough to hear over the siren.

The blow knocks his head into the metal rail of the gurney hard enough it bounces off. Rage and pain contort his features. I try to hit him again but he swats the tank away. The cylinder thwacks the wall and rolls out of my reach.

Martin lunges, his hands again finding purchase around my throat. His weight bears down. My vision tunnels. Panic seizes my chest. I flail, trying to scratch his face, but with his arms straight I don't have the reach. I dig my nails into his forearms, dragging them down, shredding skin and drawing blood.

His eyes meet mine. They lose focus. Martin's grip falters—the bruising strength of his fingers lessening. He blinks once, twice. Shakes his head. Blown pupils search my face.

---