Endurance - Jack Kilborn [87]
Nipples. He’s covered with nipples.
The freak opened his mouth and made a noise that was a lot like the honking of a Canadian goose. Then he lunged.
Deb thrust her blade at him, but he batted it aside with his bandaged hand, sending it skittering across the floor. She tried to scurry after the knife, but the curved fiberglass of her Cheetahs slipped across the wood floor. The only traction on her prosthetics were the rubber treads, but in a sitting position the bottoms were bent upward like the ends of a W.
Calvin honked again, getting his arms around her, nipples poking at her face and eyes. Deb tried to turn, to get onto her hands and knees, but his grip was too strong.
Behind her, the banister creaked, then shifted.
Calvin backed up, apparently afraid of breaking it and falling over. Deb took the opportunity to lunge for the knife, tapping it with her fingertips, sending it spinning toward the railing.
Don’t fall! Don’t fall!
The knife handle teeter-tottered over the ledge then righted itself. Deb stretched farther, trying to snag it, and then her head was yanked back by her hair. But it felt more than just pulling. It also felt wet.
She turned her head, trying to see what was happening peripherally.
He’s biting my hair.
Deb tried to push against the floor, but her prosthetics couldn’t get a purchase. Then her eyes flitted to her bag, the strap still around her shoulder. She reached for it.
Calvin’s hands moved down, encircling her neck, and Deb thought he was going to strangle her. But the pervert lowered his hands, reaching for her breasts instead.
Bad move.
Deb tugged down the zipper on her suitcase and freed one of her prosthetic mountain climbing legs—the one with the spikes on the toe.
Calvin got the spiked end in the eye.
He honked again, rolling off of her, slapping both hands to his face.
Deb grabbed the knife and pulled herself upright, ready to fight back. But the strange, heaving sounds Calvin made had a familiar, rhythmic pattern that made her pause.
He’s crying. Like a little kid.
While Deb was deciding what to do next, Calvin let out a mighty roar and tackled her, both of them flying over the railing, crashing to the floor twelve feet below.
Florence spent a lifetime studying the martial arts to become more in touch with her body, her surroundings, and her spirituality. But along the path to enlightenment, she also learned how to fight.
The two shots to the head didn’t even slow down the monstrous Warren, with his massive skull and elephantine legs. But Florence also had a knife. She moved easily and fluidly toward the stampeding giant, dropped her left shoulder, and rolled up to him, thrusting the Sheriff’s blade deep into his inner thigh. Florence twisted the knife, intending to sever the body’s largest artery, the femoral. Battlefield triage in Vietnam had shown her how quickly an injury like that proved fatal.
Incredibly, Warren swatted her aside, like she was a pesky fly. Florence moved with the blow, deflecting most of its force, and faced him on all fours, still clutching the knife. She waited for him to drop.
He didn’t. His leg was bleeding, but not gushing like she’d expected.
His thigh is so thick I missed the artery.
“You stabbed Warren,” Warren said.
“And I’ll do it again unless Warren leaves me alone.”
Florence eyed the door. She probably had a chance to get away. But Warren would no doubt follow, and alert others to what was going on.
It’s self-defense, Florence told herself. I’m not actively trying to kill a man.
But Florence knew Warren had to die if she was going to find Letti and Kelly.
Strangely, she was okay with that.
“How many brothers do you have, Warren?”
Warren plodded over to the dresser, picking up a packet. He tore it open and slapped white powder onto his thigh and forehead. The bleeding stopped almost immediately.
The styptic the Sheriff mentioned.
“Warren has lots of brothers.”
“How many is lots?”
He turned to face her. “Lots.”
“Your brothers have my daughter and granddaughter. I want