Page 45 of Resuscitation
“Alright,” Blake said steadily. “I’m coming in. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Stay where I can see you and keep it slow. Otherwise, your friend will die to regret it.” Psycho-guy grinned at his own joke, yet another tip off to his altered mental status.
Blake stepped into the doorway, hands raised, pistol dangling from his finger by the trigger guard.
“Drop the piece,” Psycho ordered.
Blake complied, crouching to set it to the floor, then standing once more. Last thing they needed was for a misfire.
“Hands in the air.”
“You guys already shot her once, you really gonna shoot her again? Why don’t you try a new target, someone more challenging than a girl,” Blake said, his tone laced with contempt.
“Just buying leverage, asshole. Now get on your knees, slowly. Then we’ll see how you feel about playing target.”
Blake eased himself onto his knees, which was an effort with his hands up. Not to mention his old injury made his leg stiff especially in the cold weather. The blade inside his boot twisted slightly. He’d almost forgotten about it.
Psycho moved toward him, eyes wide, pupils dilated with more than just adrenaline. Christ, the guy was high on something. Erratic, irrational, irritable, this guy had it all going on.
Before Blake could deliver a PSA on the dangers of mixing guns and drugs, Psycho flipped his pistol around and whacked Blake across the side of the head. Blake crumpled lower to the floor, bracing himself with a palm while his other hand went to his head and felt sticky, warm blood oozing there. His vision swam for a moment and nausea clenched his gut, but a few deep breaths cleared his head.
Psycho moved around him as if eying a particularly interesting specimen. Blake moved his hand slowly from his skull to his ankle, pretending his balance was wobbly after the blow, his fingers brushing the knife handle inside his boot.
“Hands back up!”
Blake grimaced and raised his hands.
“Please,” Alyssa said. “Please don’t?—”
“It’s okay, Alyssa, it’s okay,” Blake said calmly.
“Ya think? Well, we’ll see about that.” Psycho rammed a knee into his back. Blake flowed with the blow, acting as if it had made him buckle, one palm slapping the floor, the other slipping his knife free.
With a practiced motion, he thumbed the blade open and stabbed the man’s popliteal fossa, twisting the blade behind and under the kneecap to do as much damage as possible before yanking it free.
Psycho let out a yelp, aiming his pistol at…where Blake had been before he slammed his entire weight into a tackle, driving Psycho back, out of the room, away from Alyssa.
They crashed into the wall opposite the door.
Blake’s hands locked onto Psycho’s pistol arm, wrestling for control of the weapon.
Tangled together, they hit the floor hard, Psycho’s head cracking against the linoleum. Blake used the other man’s momentary daze to his advantage, twisting his wrist with all his strength. The gun clattered to the ground, skittering across the floor.
Psycho thrashed beneath him, trying to jab Blake with his elbow. But Blake still held his knife, and he knew how to use it. He didn’t just plunge the blade into Psycho’s thigh, he targeted the area around the femoral blood vessels with repeated punching stabs. All he needed was for one to hit the vein—a more deadly wound than an arterial blow, but Blake would be happy with either.
Blood streamed freely from Psycho’s thigh as Blake pinioned the man, straddling his chest to keep him down. All Blake had to do was hold this position, and the wounds would do the rest. He’d bleed out, and it would be over.
Maybe it was the drugs in his system, but somehow Psycho found the strength to send his hips flying up, bucking Blake off. Then he spun around, slamming his elbow into Blake’s exposed back.
Blake grunted as pain shot up his spine. He fought to maintain his position, knowing he couldn’t let Psycho gain the upper hand. He used the wall for leverage—and to protect his back from another blow, climbing upright just as Psycho came at him, fingers outstretched like claws. The blood had soaked the man’s pants, puddling on the floor, but Psycho wouldn’t give up, lips curled into a rictus grin, showing his teeth as he lunged and tried to dig his fingers into Blake’s eyeballs.
Blake blocked the frenzied attack, and Psycho laughed. The kind of laugh that would haunt Blake’s nightmares for a long time, he was sure. Blake spotted a stray wheelchair tipped sideways, gave it a hard shove, and used it to flip Psycho backwards onto the floor. The damn fool somehow rolled over and tried to crawl away, but Blake easily caught him once more.
“Just…stay…down,” Blake growled through gritted teeth, pressing his total weight onto Psycho’s chest.
The man’s eyes were wide with panic, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
Blake watched the fight draining from the man, replaced by the sudden realization he was dying. For a moment, Blake was transported back to that goddamn highway in Afghanistan, watching the light fade from Miller’s eyes as they stared into Blake’s soul.
