Page 138 of Chokehold
I don’t let myself feel relief. Not yet. Not until I know for a fucking fact that Malcolm is dead. I won’t leave here until he burns to a crisp.
The rain is coming down heavier, bouncing against the pavement, threatening to extinguish the flames.
I jog across the road, slide down the embankment, and approach the burning vehicle. The fire hisses as if it fights its inevitable demise. I hold a hand up to protect my face from the intense heat, but I can still feel it threaten to singe my exposed skin.
Bending to look into the cabin, I frown when I find the front seat empty.
“What the fuck?” I breathe out in a disbelieving voice before straightening up to look around, but it’s too late. A hard blow to the back of my head knocks me to my knees, and I groan as hot pain radiates through my skull.
The world spins out of control.
Rough hands fist my T-shirt and haul me up, and then a sour breath laced with alcohol assaults my confused senses. “You really need to stop playing the fucking hero, boy.” The grip on my T-shirt loosens, and I fall to the ground.
Malcom kicks me hard in the stomach, causing me to curl in on myself. Violent coughs rack my body, but he’s far from satisfied. His next kick sends me flying.
I try to crawl away, clawing at the dried grass, vaguely aware of the hissing fire beside us. Malcolm stalks me. He could easily catch up with me and end this torture once and for all while he has the upper hand. Instead, he hunts me. He puts one foot in front of the other, humming under his breath. “Where are you going?”
This time when I cough, blood splutters from my mouth, and that’s when I know I’m in deep trouble. I can barely breathe.
My fingers dig into the dried grass and soil. I wince as a sharp stab of pain stabs at my temple.
Another hard kick in my side forces me closer to the burning car. The heat scorches my back, threatening to melt my clothing if I get too close.
When I try to get up, he knees my chin, and I fall back.
I groan in pain, then choke as more blood floods my mouth, my ribs throbbing with an icy pain that’s at odds with the unbearable heat. I’m weakening.
I spit, trying and failing to push up from the ground.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in my way.” His distorted voice drifts in and out of my consciousness. “I could have been with my family now if it weren’t for you.”
He fists my short hair, and a rippling pain spreads across my scalp.
Cold metal digs into my temple. Malcolm sneers at me. “You won’t get between me and my family again.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss through bloodied, gritted teeth.
I’m convinced he’ll pull the trigger—his finger threatens to—but he chuckles instead before the pistol whips me with such brutal force that my head snaps to the side. I laugh, delirious. If I’m going to die at the hands of a crazy fuck, I might as well show him my true colors.
He might be a drunk whose life spiraled out of control until there was nothing left but ashes, but I don’t accept defeat. And I certainly don’t lose.
“You’re pathetic.” I’m still chuckling, and his eyes darken with anger. “You want to kill me. Do it.”
“With fucking pleasure,” he growls, cocking his gun and lifting his arm.
I launch myself at his ankles, and we crash to the ground. Malcolm tries to kick me, but I’m soon on top of him, fighting to steal his gun. It’s easier said than done. I’m bleeding profusely, my ribs throb with each inhale, and my strength is waning.
A shot goes off, sending birds erupting from nearby trees. Grabbing his wrist, I bang it against the ground. Again and again. The weapon drops from his fingers, but before I can get it, he throws me off, picks it up, and aims it at my head. I barely manage to roll out of the way before he pulls the trigger.
“Shit!” I curse, jumping to my feet and sprinting for cover behind the burning vehicle. It’s too fucking hot, and I’m scared to get too close in case it explodes. Any moment now, it could goboom.
“Stop hiding, you faggot.”
Clutching my sore arm, I wince when my hand comes away slick with blood. I was too high on adrenaline to realize or even feel the pain when he shot me. I doubt he hit an artery, but it’s still bleeding heavily.
I lean back against a tree and rest my head against the trunk. I’m soaked through from the rain, my clothes sticking to my bruised body.
My odds of survival aren’t great. I have a useless arm and no weapon. For the first time, fear trickles into my heart—not of death but of losing Cole. What if I never get to see him again?
