Crush - Alan Jacobson [152]
And the Glock flew from her hands.
FIFTY-NINE
In the distant light that was off somewhere in the background, Vail saw John Mayfield in silhouette, his massive hand over her mouth. He had her shoved against the barrels. And she knew what was coming.
Vail swung, struck his meaty shoulder, then
kicked him in his groin—hit something hard,
kneed him again, and
again,
writhing her head from side to side, trying to open her mouth to bite—
reached up and grabbed for his face, got hold of his nose but
he yanked his head back and
she threw her left hand up in time to block a massive thrust into her
neck.
It struck her hand and forced it against her throat and she coughed.
Spasmodic. Coughing—
And then she heard a nauseatingly sick bone-breaking crunch.
“OVER HERE!”
Dixon tried to locate Vail’s voice—but in the chamber, with its uneven and gazebo-rounded ceilings, she couldn’t triangulate on her position. She moved quickly into the large room, using whatever light was being given off by the fallen Maglite, hoping she wouldn’t run into Mayfield. Because right now, she was sure he was here. That’s what had taken down Brix.
She saw barrels to her left and moved toward them, her right hand aiming her SIG and her left feeling the metal rims surrounding the flat oak faces, forward, forward, a few feet at a time.
And then scuffling, struggling, muted yells—off to her right. Karen!
Dixon ran in the direction of the noise. Around the bend, she saw, in the relative darkness, John Mayfield, legs spread, straddling something. She couldn’t see Vail, but Mayfield was easily twice her width.
Given Mayfield’s well-documented MO—which she’d experienced firsthand—she didn’t have to see Vail to know where she was, or what Mayfield was doing to her.
There wasn’t a good angle to take him out with a clean shot—especially in the poor lighting, she couldn’t be sure what she would hit. And a man like this wouldn’t respond to her plea for him to put his hands above his head. Based on what Vail had told her about narcissists, “surrender” is not in their ego-driven vocabulary.
So with Agbayani’s demise in the forefront of her thoughts, Dixon went for the more personal approach. She came up beside him, lifted her right leg, and brought her foot down, with all the force she could muster, against the side of Mayfield’s locked left knee, driving it to the right.
He recoiled in pain, the bone-crushing blow tearing ligament, cartilage—and probably fracturing his tibia and fibula.
As Mayfield’s knee buckled, he yelled out in pain, crumpled backwards. Dixon grabbed his thick wrist and brought her right forearm across her body and forward, through Mayfield’s elbow joint. It hyper-extended and snapped. She yanked down on his fractured arm, then backhanded him across the face with her SIG-fisted hand.
Mayfield, dazed by the blow, stumbled awkwardly on his broken leg, then collapsed and hit the ground hard.
Dixon stepped forward and brought her leg back like a place kicker and planted it in his jaw. It was a cheap shot, she knew, because the man was already unconscious.
Then she brought up her SIG and aimed.
SIXTY
After hearing the first crunch, Vail felt Mayfield release his grip on her mouth. She saw and heard movement—and Mayfield was suddenly yanked to the side, followed by another bone-snapping sound. A blow to the face. And then he was stumbling backward.
Standing there was Dixon. She stepped forward and kicked him. Just to make sure the Crush Killer would not be doing any more damage.
Vail rushed over to the fallen flashlight and picked it up. And that’s when she saw Dixon aiming her pistol at Mayfield’s head.
“Roxxann!”
Dixon, her blonde hair matted and mussed and half-covering her face, brushed it aside. Her chest was heaving, her left hand still balled into a fist.
Vail stepped forward. “It’s okay, Roxx. It’s okay.” She brought Dixon against her body, gave her a hug and a reassuring squeeze, and felt