The round missed, burying itself in the wall behind Luther’s head.
Luther had ducked, causing his hand to withdraw from the pocket in the chair. He recovered, reaching in again. Jason, ready to fire once more, paused when Chrissie’s words echoed in his ears.
Don’t leave me again …
Now, Luther bent over the chair and reached into it again. He lifted something out of the pocket. Regaining his focus, Jason launched himself at Luther and the top of the tattooed head with the exposed, coiled dragon.
Luther swung his head around as Jason connected. His free hand grabbed at Jason’s gun, clutching his wrist. His other mitt emerged from the pocket of the chair with a massive handgun.
Jason, in turn, clutched at Luther’s wrist, stopping him from leveling the weapon. Their faces inches apart, the two men grunted and struggled in a waltz-like death dance. Luther pushed, Jason pushed back. Jason responded with a surge of strength, forcing Luther into the wall.
They wavered back and forth, sweat dripping from their faces, grasping each other by the wrist, their hands clutching weapons, their arms flailing in arcs, trying to bring weapons to bear, their strained efforts halted by the other man’s hands and arms.
Jason pressed his chest into Luther’s. The tattooed man, though smaller, still possessed enormous strength and countered Jason’s surges.
Jason’s strength and determination eventually won out, pressing Luther into the wall, forcing Luther’s gun down. Luther’s barrel was now pointed at the floor while Jason’s Smith and Wesson twisted closer to the assassin’s face.
Luther turned away. Ignoring the searing pain in his wounded arm, Jason pushed the advantage, his weapon a few degrees from its target.
If you live in the past, it will kill you.
Chrissie’s words shouted in his ears, giving him another pause. His initiative faltered. Luther seized the opportunity. His head whipped forward, the temple connecting with Jason’s cheek. White shards of light filled Jason’s field of vision. A loud crack filled the space around Jason’s head as it whipped to the side. His grip on Luther’s arm slackened. He fell away, his body separating from Luther’s.
An instant later, Luther’s knee pressed on his chest. Then Luther planted a boot on Jason’s sternum. Jason was catapulted through space. The whoosh of air past his head and the roller-coaster-like sensation of falling consumed his senses. The gun was out of his hand now, flying behind him. Landing on a throw rug, he slid across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop against the opposite wall.
With his left eye closed and stinging from the head butt, Jason could see only through his right. He saw the lower half of Luther’s body approach, striding toward him with the hand cannon clutched at his thigh. The weapon moved up and out of sight as Luther stepped onto the crumpled rug.
Jason grabbed the cloth throw, rolling over and away from the barrel that was no doubt aimed at his head. He yanked the rug with all his might.
Luther’s weight gave way. Luther’s weapon discharged, the report pounding his ears.
People experience varying levels of fear during the course of a lifetime. The severity and intensity of that angst depend on the causative stimuli, ranging from the simple anxiety of being reprimanded by one’s boss, to the heart-skipping helplessness of your car careening out of control, to the life-stopping news that a loved one has died. Over the course of decades, most people will experience the whole gamut.
Thirteen-year-old Michael Rodgers had experienced all of them in the last twenty four hours. Awoken in the dead of night, his alarmed curiosity had morphed into electric anxiety as whispering voices called to him from outside his bedroom. Gut-wrenching panic ensued as a needle was plunged into his neck. He trembled before everything went black.
He woke kneeling, with his arms chained behind him, his body stiff and aching. Since regaining consciousness, he’d remained as still and as quiet as possible. He only moved when the agony in his muscles became unbearable. The discomfort reared in spurts, forcing him to wriggle in place.
When he wasn’t trying to get comfortable, he listened. At that moment, Michael realized there was really no such thing as complete silence. It was amazing how noisy a quiet room could be. Wind blew outside, buffeting the walls. The creaking of wood cut the quiet. Tiny creatures scurried around the room.
Michael shook. Not from cold. At first, terror consumed him. Eventually, he depleted his ability to sustain fear. He decided to make the best of this problem. His father had always told him courage was doing what was necessary despite your fear. What was necessary right now was to determine where he was and who had kidnapped him.
The sound of a large keychain rattled from beyond a wall somewhere in the distance. Muffled voices spoke in a foreign tongue, followed by the metallic clack of a key inserted into the lock. A door crashed open behind and above him.
Thick booted footsteps descended a short set of stairs. Something metal was set down beside him. The presence of other humans floated nearby. Their soft breaths and whispers brushed about. The whoosh of clothing preceded a push of air.
Someone had stooped to his level. Then the whispered, accented voice filled with a manly scent.
“Do not make a sound or I will cut your throat.”
A sharp, long piece of cold metal touched his neck. He stiffened, realizing it was a very large knife.
A forceful hand removed the cloth from around his head. He reflexively spit out the ball of material crammed into his mouth. The blindfold remained in place.
“Open your mouth!”
Michael hesitated but complied, opening his lips a fraction. A warm, soft piece of bread was rammed into his mouth. He chewed slowly, enjoying the ability to move his jaw freely. A second piece was shoved in before he’d finished the first. A plastic bottle was placed to his lips. Cold water spilled past his tongue, mixing with the masticated bread. Michael gagged, but choked down most of the water.
He managed to speak. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
More words were spoken in a language he didn’t understand. He thought it might be French. Seconds later, the chains securing him relaxed and he was lifted to his feet. Strong arms hoisted him up the stairs. Michael heard a second male voice speaking to someone else in the room.
Though he did not understand the words, he understood their meaning. They were commands, the same commands that had just been given to him. There was someone else being held with him. A muted response followed, then a high-pitched, muffled shriek.
When he was outside, the soft, warm breeze hit the exposed skin of his face. Michael felt as if he were being cleansed, even though he was dragged a distance over rough earth. In the distance, Michael heard something he recognized. Something familiar to him: pounding surf. Just like home.
Hands manipulated his jeans. They were tugged to his ankles.
“Go!” the voice commanded.
Michael peed where he stood. When he was done, the hands began to lift his jeans.
“I have to take a dump, too!”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? What is this word dump?”
“I have to take a crap! You know … poop.”
“Merde,” the voice swore. “Vous êtes un cul!” You’re an ass!
It wasn’t a lie. His bowels had been touchy since he’d been taken. But he wanted to enjoy some of this half-freedom as long as possible.
He was moved again. His back was leaned against a tree with his legs angled a few feet from the trunk. Pressing his back against the rough bark, Michael relieved himself.
When Michael was finished, his guard put his pants back on and he was escorted to the cell. Michael heard a key inserted into the lock on the heavy door. It swung open and crashed against a wall. They walked down the stairs. His captor recoiled as Michael’s foot touched the sandy floor.
“Charlie … Charlie, que se passe??” the guard called out to his partner. What’s happening?
Quickly, Michael was pushed back into his spot and chained to the wall.
The cloth was stuffed back into his mouth and the gag tightened around his head. He listened as his guard tended to his partner. Hushed, clipped words were exchanged in French.
Scuffling followed, then harsh unintelligible words. Some sort of threat had been leveled at the other person being held with him. Fear welled in Michael. Not for himself but for the woman with him.
You can’t tell much from a muffled shriek. But there could be no doubt that that person was a woman. Only a woman would make a sound like that. It could only be one person, he told himself. He would have bet his entire collection of baseball cards on the fact.
They had taken him. They had probably taken her also.
Michael knew what he needed to do next. He needed to communicate with her. He needed to let his mother know he was here … with her. Then they would figure out what to do.
When the guards left, Michael worked his tongue slowly, determinedly, against the cottony, acrid cloth balled in his mouth.
He needed to talk to his mother.
She’d heard it plenty of times. And there was no time to waste.
Mildred Williams had grown up around firearms her whole life. Her father had been an avid hunter. He owned an assortment of rifles and handguns. She learned to shoot at a young age.
When she moved out on her own many years ago, she witnessed a shooting in the East End. She’d lived in the projects then. Drug deals were weekly fare. Gunfire a monthly occurrence.
That was then. She lived on 65th Street now. Crime rates were lower here. But the gunshot reminded of her days in the ghetto.
When someone got shot, living or dying meant getting them to the hospital quickly.
One shot meant more would follow.
She lifted the eighties-style handset off the wall and dialed.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting on my street.”
After the shot missed, Luther landed on his back, thumping to the floor. Jason whipped his body, arcing his legs at the fallen man, kicking at Luther.
His shin connected with the gun and hand. His kick followed through, striking Luther’s face. Now, Luther’s weapon went airborne, rattling along the floor into the dining area near the small dining room table.
Luther scrambled after it. Jason kicked Luther again, this time in the flank, slowing the desperate man. Luther, on all fours now, paddled toward his weapon. Jason reached out and grabbed Luther’s jersey by the collar, pulling him back. Both men scrambled toward the gun. In concert with the sound of tearing fabric, Luther dragged Jason into the dining area.
The gun lay at the foot of one of the legs of the rickety table.
Luther flailed an elbow twice at Jason’s head. The first missed. The second connected with his chest. Jason grunted, refusing to release his grip. The pharmacist countered with two futile punches, hitting Luther in the shoulder. He yanked the jersey hard, stopping Luther’s progress for a moment. Fabric shredded in Jason’s hands, leaving him holding half a shirt. Luther began to dart away. Jason leapt, wrapping both arms around Luther’s neck.
With Luther’s progress halted, Jason rammed Luther’s head into the floor and vaulted over his back, stretching for the gun. He could see it clearly now. Walking to Luther’s .357 Magnum with two fingers, he coaxed it into his hands. Jason rolled onto his back and started to level the weapon between his knees toward where Luther should be.
As he was bringing it to bear, Luther’s large hand pushed it aside and the criminal lurched over Jason. Jason raised a knee and used Luther’s momentum to launch him over. Luther collided with the table and a chair, knocking them askew. The shaky table skidded sideways. Two of its chairs toppled.
Somehow, Luther recovered, and in a quick wrestling reversal, Jason found himself staring up at William Luther. The shrunken, tattoo-laden man was atop Jason, pinning his arms and torso to the hardwood. The gun was still in Jason’s right hand but pinned by Luther’s left knee.
Jason’s free left hand flailed at Luther’s head. Luther tried to grab it. In doing so, his weight shifted, allowing Jason to free his right hand and the gun. Jason swung the weapon at Luther’s head, connecting with Tattoo Man’s cheek and face. Blood erupted on his skin.
Luther grabbed Jason’s gun hand once more, twisting the weapon free. It toppled from both their grips and landed a few feet from Jason’s shoulder. With the gun removed, both Luther’s hands dove for Jason’s throat, the fingers closing around it.
The wild, menacing glare in Luther’s eyes coincided with the pressure growing in Jason’s eyes and head. The murderer’s strong hands closed off his windpipe. He tried to gulp in air. But none found its way to his lungs.
Jason’s hands went to the vice-like mitts, trying to pry them away. For an instant, a trivial amount of oxygen slipped into his lungs as Jason was able to relieve the pressure momentarily. Just as quickly, it closed again.
Jason attempted to elevate his chin and pull the hands away. But Luther only closed the fleshy noose tighter. He tried bucking him off. He dug his fingernails into Luther’s skin as Jason flailed at the head and face with one hand. His vision turned red.
Time was running out.
The faint wail of sirens reverberated through his fading consciousness.