––––––––
If this was an action movie from the eighties, I would have stood my ground and beat down everyone that Murdock sent. Instead I turned around and ran my ass off. Smith could take care of this mess. I had done my part. Most of the people attending the funeral were your average out of shape citizens. Outrunning them wouldn't be an issue.
At least, it wouldn't have been had I seen the caretaker hiding behind the mausoleum before he hit me in the chest with a shovel.
Air erupted from my lungs as I stumbled backward, trying to stay on my feet. My mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Panic set in while my lungs tried to remember how to function.
Pain exploded across the right side of my face. I fell sideways, arms pinwheeling as I tripped over a low marble grave stone. A mourner had caught up faster than I expected. He punched hard, too.
The caretaker ran at me, the shovel raised above his head, as I staggered back to my feet. Instead of moving back, I stepped toward him, grabbing the front of his brown overcoat and swinging him at the funeral-goer. My toss and his momentum sent the two of them toppling over in a jumble of limbs.
Leaning against a huge headstone with a statue of Christ atop it, I tried to focus on breathing. Touching my tender sternum, I checked for broken ribs.
"Ash, are you okay?" Nami said.
"I've been better," I wheezed.
"You have some more people coming at you. Try not to get hit by anymore gardening tools."
I'm down here getting my ass kicked and she's making fun of me. Computer geeks have always annoyed the hell out of me.
"Thanks for the tip, Naomi."
"Nami!"
The rest of the funeral party closed in, two middle-aged men leading the pack. How many people could Murdock control at once? His mental powers were astonishing. Pushing myself up, I started circling left in an attempt to keep them both from reaching me at the same time.
The man in front slipped in mud as he tried to jump over the caretaker and landed on his side, his arm at an awkward angle when he attempted to lessen the impact of his fall with it. The lack of a reaction on his face disturbed the hell out of me.
When Murdock had control of you, did you not feel anything? This man had a completely different reaction than the senator, who seemed to have an internal struggle before shooting himself. Did Murdock decide if he wanted you to be aware of what you were doing?
Behind him came a family of six, with the second man ahead of them. His large beer belly swayed, straining the buttons of his suit as he tried to grab me by the shoulders. I dropped to a knee and punched him in it. As he doubled over beside me, I pushed him on top of the man with the broken arm and turned to face the rest of his family.
There was no way I could live with myself if I beat up a soccer mom, boys who were weren't even teenagers, and two pretty little blonde girls. There's a special place in hell for people capable of such a thing. Deciding to run again, I just started to turn around when rosary beads wrapped around my neck, pulling me off balance.
Clawing at them with my hands, I tried to wedge a finger under them to allow a mouthful of air in. They say a man's strength is the last thing to go and the elderly priest strangling me proved it. The pressure from the rosary bit into my throat with such intensity that I could feel the warmth of blood beading around it. Gargles escaped me as I struggled against it, shocked that it wasn't breaking.
The mother, who looked incredible considering she had four children, bent down to pick up the shovel. The rain caused her black dress to cling to her toned body. She held the handle like a baseball player stepping up to the plate and marched toward me.
So this was how it would end; strangled by a man of the cloth and bludgeoned by Carol Brady.
Over her shoulder I could see at least two dozen men in black battle dress uniforms running across the cemetery, assault rifles aimed at the blonde woman standing by the funeral site. The blanketing sound of the rain blotted out what they yelled at Murdock. Their guns managed to convey the message.
The rosary around my neck released. Gasping for air I fell to my knees, holding my bleeding throat. Soccer Mom gave the shovel in her hand a perplexed look.
"What's going on?" she asked.
The armed men behind her continued advancing at Murdock. Their tactics didn't make any sense. Why approach a man who is able to manipulate your very actions?
The roar of a large diesel engine pierced through the pounding rain. I could see a massive eighteen wheeler accelerating on Route 1, behind the agents. It veered across both of lanes of traffic, causing cars to swerve in every direction. The big rig collided with the front end of a Toyota Prius, crumpling it like tin foil. Instead of braking, the truck driver shifted gears and accelerated, sending plumes of black smoke from its chrome exhaust stacks. The agents, hearing the collision, turned in time to see it barreling forward.
The truck hopped the curb and began plowing through headstones. The thicker, sturdier grave markers smashed the grill and bumper of the tractor trailer. It continued forward despite the damage. Boring down on the agents, the driver jerked the wheel, forcing the trailer into a jackknife and tipping the entire rig over.
The armed men, only a few dozen yards from the road, didn't have much time to react. A few of them managed to dive out of the way at the last second. The rest were mowed down like crops harvested by a combine. Those who evaded the front end of the truck were crushed under the toppling trailer. Muddy water and blood squirted out from the impact. At least two members of that unnamed force were still alive. I could hear their bloodcurdling screams.
Murdock wiped out almost thirty armed men without ever firing a shot. Defeating him seemed impossible.
Smith and Nami yelled in my ear at the same time, but I couldn't understand them. The earpiece must have been damaged, because their voices came through in high pitched, painful screeches. I couldn't concentrate through those awful sounds, so I dug the radio out of my ear and dropped it to the ground.
Dragging my eyes off the overturned truck, I looked back at Murdock. He stood by the open gravesite, staring back at me. Kicking off his pumps, he turned and fled from the cemetery.
Interfering with my revenge is the last mistake you'll ever make.
Splashing footsteps made me look back at Soccer Mom just in time to see the shovel as it smashed into my face.