Page 39 of Better off Dead

“Chemistry’s fine.” I still had the gun I’d taken from the guy outside the café. I was tempted to use it. That would solve the immediate problem. But a shot would be heard. And I had no desire to attract attention. Not just then. What I had in mind called for privacy. So I moved slowly to my left. Just until the driver was directly between me and the exit. “But me? I always preferred physics.”

“I warned you.” The driver flicked away the little clip that held the pin against the curved handle. He switched the canister to his left hand. Curled his right index finger through the ring. And gave it a tug.

It didn’t budge.

I guessed this was the guy’s first time. Arming a grenade is harder than it looks in the movies. The locking pin is made of surgical steel. One leg is bent at a steep angle. It needs to be. No one wants to be on the wrong end of an accidental discharge. The guy adjusted his grip. He raised his right elbow. Maybe he thought that would give him improved leverage. I didn’t wait to see if he was right. I just pushed off my back foot, hard, and started to run. As fast as I could. Straight ahead. Directly toward him. I covered half the distance. Three-quarters. Then I threw myself forward.

My shoulder sank into the guy’s midriff. It knocked him off his feet. We clattered together into the doors. A combined 450 pounds. And the effect of my weight was multiplied by the speed I’d gained. The old lock was no match for that. Not even close. The doors burst open. One swung around and crashed into the wall. The other came right off its hinges and cartwheeled away. The two of us landed on the ground. Him underneath, on his back. Me, on top. I was crushing his chest. I felt some of his ribs shatter on impact. Maybe a collarbone, too. Maybe both of them. But those injuries didn’t matter. He would never feel the pain. Because his shoulders wound up level with the lip of the top step leading down to the street. My bulk pinned his torso in place. But his head continued to move. It swung around another five inches. Then the back of his skull hit the concrete. It split open like a watermelon. Something sticky sprayed up across my face. The guy twitched. Just once. And then he was still.

Chapter29

Half a second later Ifelt a weight on my back. A couple of hundred pounds. Then an arm snaked around my neck. It was the other guy. He must have followed me out. Seen his opportunity, with me practically on the ground. Dived on top of me. Sandwiching me between him and his buddy. He kept stretching until the angle of his elbow was wrapped around my throat. Grabbed hold of his wrist with his other hand. Pulled back. Jammed his knee into my spine for extra leverage. He was using all his strength. Straining like a fisherman fighting to land the catch of his life. I reached around behind me, scrabbling for his head, but he was leaning too far back. That was smart. He’d anticipated the danger and was staying out of harm’s way.

He was going after me. I was going after him. Neither of us was giving an inch. Neither of us was close to a breakthrough. He must have sensed the deadlock. That suited me fine. If he was looking for a battle of endurance he’d picked the wrong opponent. That was for damn sure. He must have sensed that, too, because he started rocking back and forth, trying to ratchet up the pressure. That certainly raised his game. I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. I flexed the muscles in my neck but I could still feel my windpipe starting to give way. Pain ripped through my larynx. My lungs began to burn. I needed to tip the scale in my favor. Fast.

I dipped my right shoulder and pushed down toward the ground at the side of the body I was still straddling. Lifted my left shoulder. Felt the guy on my back adjust his balance. He was trying not to slide off. Compensating by leaning the other way. The instant he moved I corkscrewed in the opposite direction. Jammed my left shoulder down. My right shoulder up. Twisted at the waist. Drove my right knee into the ground and heaved myself up. The pair of us pivoted to the left. We teetered for a moment as the guy realized what was happening and tried to fight the momentum. To reverse the motion. But he was too late. And he was still clinging to my neck.

We flipped over. Together. He was underneath this time. On his back. I was on top. Also on my back. He was pinned down. But he was still trying to strangle me. He hadn’t given up. The opposite. He was trying to squeeze even harder. I guess desperation was setting in. He probably couldn’t breathe very well himself with my weight on his chest. And he couldn’t get his head clear. The ground was stopping him. I stretched around. Felt his mask. It was facing away from me. Toward the street. The angle was impossible. Then I realized he must have pushed it up onto the top of his head. He must have wanted to see better, but to be ready if the canister of gas erupted. I tore the mask off. Dropped it. Slid my hand down his forehead. Found the bridge of his nose. Pressed my thumb into his right eye. Poked my index finger into his left. And started to press.

I didn’t press too hard. Not at first. He kept trying to crush my throat. I increased the pressure. He whimpered. Thrashed his head from side to side. Trying to break contact. But he didn’t let go. I pressed harder. Harder still. I figured I was no more than a fraction of an inch away from his eyeballs bursting or popping out. I would normally consider that a satisfactory result. But under the circumstances, I had to be careful. His presence was a bonus. I didn’t want to waste it. I needed him capable of answering questions. So I didn’t increase the force any further. I kept my finger and thumb steady. I arched my back. Pushed my other hand between our bodies. Moved it down, toward his groin. Grabbed hold. Started to squeeze. And twist. Harder. Tighter. Until he screamed and let go of my neck.

I jumped straight to my feet before he could change his mind or try something else. I stamped on his abdomen. Not too hard. Just enough to immobilize him for a moment. Then I gathered up his gun and his mask and the gas canister. It had slipped out of the other guy’s hand and rolled onto the top step. The pin was still in place. I picked up his backpack. Checked inside. He had a bottle of water. A coil of paracord. Some kind of tool. And a bundle of zip ties. The tool was in a tan leather case. It was like a folding penknife, with a whole bunch of extra blades and screwdrivers and scissors. The ties were heavy-duty. There were half a dozen. I put the knife and the ties in my pocket. I put the gun in the backpack. Then I prodded the guy in the ear with the toe of my shoe.

“That your car?” I gestured to the far side of the street. A Lincoln Town Car was parked by the curb. It was black. It looked like the one the three guys had driven away from the morgue.

He craned his neck around to see what I was pointing at, then nodded.

“Where’s the key?”

He pointed at the body lying next to him.

“Get it.”

“No way.” All the color drained out of the guy’s face. “He’s dead. I’m not touching him.”

“If you won’t get the key, you’re no use to me.” I jabbed him in the ear again, a little harder. “Want to wind up like him?”

The guy didn’t reply. He just rolled onto all fours, stretched across his buddy’s body, pulled the keys out of his pants pocket, and held them up for me to see.

“Good. Now pick up the body. Put it in the trunk.”

“No way. I’m not carrying him.”

“His body’s going in the trunk. Either you put it in there, or you join it in there. Your choice.”

The guy shook his head, scrambled to his feet, and trudged down the steps. He grabbed his buddy’s hands and pulled. He made it to the sidewalk and a gun rattled free. He tried to pounce on it. But he was too slow. I pinned the gun down with one foot. And kicked him in the head with the other. Not too hard. Just a warning. Which worked. He went back to dragging the body. It left a trail of dark, congealing blood across the street. I waited until he was halfway to the car then scooped up the gun and added it to the stuff in the backpack.

The guy popped the trunk. He struggled to lift the body. It was heavy. Its head and limbs were flopping around all over the place. Eventually the guy hauled it into a sitting position. Propped its shoulder against the fender. Moved in close behind it. Wrapped his arms around its chest. Heaved it up. And posted it in headfirst. He slammed the trunk immediately, as if that would prevent him being pushed in, too, and spun around. His eyes were wide. He was breathing hard. His forearms were smudged with blood.

I said, “Unlock the doors.”

The guy prodded a button on the remote. I heard four almost simultaneous clunks as the mechanisms responded.

“Put the keys on the trunk.”

The guy did as he was told.

“Get in. Driver’s seat.”

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