A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [116]
During his initial time at the lab, he had actually driven past this field a number of times. Once he had stopped to walk to within just a few yards of the magnificent beasts before a ranch hand on horseback warned him that, even though herds of wild bison had given way to ranch-bred, the animals were still fast, unpredictably temperamental, and at two thousand pounds, with horns, hooves, and a massive, battering-ram head, more deadly than a grizzly.
“I’ve had it with you, Rhodes,” the man was saying. “You’re a wise guy, and you don’t care what happens to your pal, here. Well, maybe you care about what happens to yourself.”
He jammed the muzzle of the submachine gun with force into Griff’s kidney, sending him down to one knee. Just as quickly, Griff was up, refusing even to rub at the spot.
“Who are you?” he asked, searching for an opening, any opening, through which to attack or to run.
“I’m a bad man, sport. That’s all you need to know,” he said, pressing the muzzle against the back of Forbush’s head for emphasis.
Like the killer who had tracked Angie to New York, this was a professional. Griff knew with certainty that there was no way either he or Melvin was going to leave this place alive.
Griff’s vision had adjusted to the gloom, and he could see a portion of the bison herd itself, huddled together against the cold. His best chance, likely his only chance, was to find a moment’s break and to run weaving in that direction.
“Are you Genesis?” he asked.
“Tie him the fuck up!”
“I won’t do it.”
Griff’s shivering was becoming more intense. He had to do something while he was still able.
But before he could make any move, the huge man charged at him, lowering his shoulder and driving it hard into Griff’s sternum. Griff heard the popping of his ribs separating from cartilage or breaking. The pain was explosive. The fury of the surprise attack lifted him off of his feet and sent him flying backward onto the rock-hard ground. He landed heavily, gasping, his lungs unable to take in air. Through dizzying pain, he rolled onto his stomach, and forced himself onto his knees. Then he glared up at the figure towering above him. Death for Melvin and for him was getting closer. The man’s temper and intense anger were the only weapons they had left.
“I’ve had it with you, sport,” he said. “You can just stand there until you freeze solid. I’ll enjoy watching.”
Teeth clenched, Griff maneuvered one leg underneath him, and was working painfully on the other when he saw movement from behind the man.
Melvin!
The gangly virologist was a specter, blood smeared across his face, rising up behind their assailant like Phoenix from the ashes. The wildness in his eyes shone through the mounting darkness like lasers.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Griff cried out, grunting around the words, but still heightening the distraction. “I’ll tie him up!… I’ll tie him up!”
At that instant, with the shriek of a banshee, Forbush leapt onto the man’s back, his hands clawing frantically at his face, his fingernails digging into his cheeks. The giant swung his body around, but Forbush held his grip like a rodeo cowboy on a bull. The submachine gun fell. Griff dragged himself toward the weapon, but the man kicked it out of reach. Then, in a blaze of motion, he pulled an enormous hunting knife from his boot.
“Nooo!” Griff screamed.
In a single, practiced move, the killer drove the blade up and back into the taller man’s shoulder.
Still, Forbush held on, yelling for Griff to run.
Then, bellowing and stumbling awkwardly, the man whirled and buried the knife almost to the hilt at the base of Forbush’s neck. Blood spewed from the wound. Forbush screamed, released his grip, and fell limply.
Griff was on his feet now, staring in disbelief at the scene. Melvin lay motionless, blood pulsing from his neck and pooling beneath him. Griff’s eyes clouded over. He felt weak and disoriented, immobile and unwilling