Page 36 of Resuscitation
Except… He clicked his light on, found what he wanted along with a bonus treat: a small digital alarm. He quickly programmed it, then switched the Maglite off again as the footsteps grew closer.
Gripping the Halligan in one hand, his new weapon in the other, he pressed his eye to the crack in the door. A man’s shadow passed behind the desk.
Now or never, was he going to hide, or seek?
He thought of Sara at the mercy of these monsters.
Seek. Most definitely seek.
ChapterEighteen
Friday,February 13th, 9:16 P.M.
Blake brushedhis finger across the small alarm he’d found. The nurses used it to keep track of medication timings, but he only needed a quick ten-second countdown. He tapped the button for it to start and set the alarm back on a shelf, then took two steps back to wait in the dark.
Eight, nine, ten, he counted silently. BEEP, BEEP.
The footsteps hurried close. BEEP, BEEP.
The door knob rattled.
Blake fell into a fighting stance just beyond where the door would swing into the closet. Raised his weapon. Only one chance at this.
The door burst open as if someone had kicked it. Someone had. Leaving his assailant off balance as he rushed the room. Blake didn’t hesitate. He ignored the other man’s outstretched arm holding the pistol and instead stepped inside to aim his own weapon directly at the man’s face.
The aerosol can of liquid nitrogen was used to freeze warts, so it didn’t contain a large amount of the gas. But more than enough to freeze a man’s corneas, blinding him.
The man screamed, arms flailing trying to block Blake, but Blake fended him off with the Halligan. The heavy tool was unwieldy to swing in such tight quarters, but right now Blake didn’t need to actually use it to do much damage, just keep the man from twisting his gun hand around to aim at Blake’s back or legs.
The man seemed to have forgotten he even had a gun, letting it fall as his dominant hand flew back to protect his eyes. Too late, as ice already crusted his eyelids and covered his eyes like thick frost. His shrieks of pain became shrill—the one flaw in Blake’s plan.
Blake kept his hand on the nozzle until the can sputtered, emptied. Then he spun the man into the closet, jammed the Halligan crowbar first into his belly to drive him back, and slammed the door shut to muffle the man’s cries. He could still hear the supplies crashing to the ground as the man heaved his body around.
One more flaw to his plan—the door didn’t lock. Blake grabbed a notepad from the desk, folded it in two, and wedged it into the bottom of the door. It wouldn’t last long, but long enough for Blake to leave. He just wished he’d been able to grab the man’s pistol or rifle.
“Tyson? Where are you, mate?” A voice with a South African lilt came from farther down the hallway, followed by hurried footsteps that echoed ominously against the linoleum floor.
Blake was out of time. He braced himself against the wall the South African would need to turn around to reach the supply closet where his comrade, Tyson, was hammering on the door. It’d only give him a split second of advantage, but he’d take what he could get.
The South African whipped around the corner. “Tyson, what?—”
Blake swung the Halligan against the gunman’s back with a hard whack. The impact sent the man stumbling against the desk. Then, in one fluid motion, Blake lunged forward and aimed a second strike against the man’s gun hand.
The man was fast and well-trained. He anticipated the blow and instead of blocking it, he used Blake’s momentum against him, grabbing the hand holding the Halligan and ducking behind Blake, almost taking his arm out of its socket. But Blake knew that trick and responded by stepping into the hold, removing the man’s leverage, then used his free hand to try to pry the pistol away from the other man.
For an instant, their eyes locked as they performed their macabre choreography. The South African flashed a smile as if he was finally having fun. He let his pistol fall to the ground—better than it being captured by Blake—and brought Blake’s wrist down against the edge of the desk. The sudden shock of pain numbed Blake’s hand and the Halligan flew free, skidding across the space.
With his hand out of commission, hopefully only temporarily, Blake drove his knee hard into the man’s midsection, knocking the wind from him and leaving him gasping for air. As the gunman doubled over, desperately trying to recover, Blake followed up by slamming his elbow into the base of the man’s neck—the blow connected with a nasty thud, sending the gunman crashing to the ground.
Taking no chances, Blake threw his body onto the gunman’s back to finish the job. The assailant rolled violently, desperately trying to shake Blake off, twisting his body around to deliver a swift elbow jab to Blake’s ribs.
Blake cried out as the electric shock of pain felt like it jolted through every one of his bones. The South African tried to have another crack at Blake’s ribs, but Blake, gritting his teeth, grabbed the back of the gunman’s collar, yanked him back down, and, with a controlled but forceful motion, slammed the gunman’s head into the floor.
Dazed and disoriented, the gunman struggled, but Blake’s resolve was stronger. Then a noise somewhere along the corridor stopped him in his tracks.
More of them were coming.
He needed to stay alive, not get caught now. Otherwise, it was over.
