Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [79]
It hit him square in the face and knocked him off balance. The wire mesh left a bloody grid on his cheek.
Totally enraged, he pressed his palm into my shoulder, pushing himself up and once again sending waves of agony through my body.
And then I heard it. The number 6 train.
Chukov heard it, too. After a darting glance between me and the platform, he decided to save his own ass and let the train take care of me.
With my gun still in his hand, he leaped toward the platform like an overweight mountain lion.
Katherine screamed.
Chukov threw his right leg onto the platform and screamed back at her. “I’ll kill you, you goddamn bitch.”
I lunged and clawed at his left foot. I jerked hard, and we both toppled backward onto the tracks. I rolled as we fell, so that by the time we got our bearings, I was straddling his chest.
I grabbed his head and whacked it against the rail. I leaned forward to pry the gun from his grasp, but Chukov slammed his oversize forehead into my face. I felt my nose break.
Down the track, the headlights of the Bronx-bound subway were bearing down on us fast. The whistle screamed.
I bet the motorman screamed, too. He of all people would know that no matter how hard he applied his brakes, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.
I heard the squeal of metal on metal as the train’s wheels skidded along the track.
Chukov and I had been engaged in a battle to the death. In a matter of seconds, the battle would be over.
Chapter 93
CHUKOV AND I had our hands wrapped around the gun. The way we were going, there could only be one winner: the number 6 train.
I knew I was out of time. So I let go of the gun. I threw my good shoulder back and drove my right elbow into his left eye. I think I heard bone crack as I drilled down into the socket. Then I jumped up. Kicked the gun out of his hand. Planted the other foot on his throat.
Katherine leaned over the platform. She peered down the tunnel at the oncoming train. “Matthew,” she yelled, “get off the tracks now!”
I looked into the darkness. The train’s headlights, which had been pin dots only seconds ago, were brighter and looming larger.
Chukov struggled to get up, but I had weight and leverage on my side.
“Matthew, please—he’s not worth it,” she begged. “Please, please run.”
I couldn’t. If I took my foot off Chukov’s throat, he’d still have enough time to vault the platform. I had to finish this.
And then I remembered. I pictured Chukov sitting in the steam room with the bronchodilator on his lap. Chukov the asthmatic.
I lifted my foot off his throat and slammed it down on his chest. The compression was more than his lungs could take. He began gasping for air.
I reached down and scooped up a fistful of the black dirt and subway soot that lay between the ties. And just as Chukov inhaled deeply, struggling to breathe, I flung it in his face.
He sucked it all in.
I grabbed another handful of the powdery filth and threw it at his nose and mouth. He was now in a full-blown asthma attack—choking, spitting, screaming half-gurgled Russian. His eyes bulged with fear.
I leaned in close to his face. “What’s the matter, Vadim? You look like you’ve seen a Ghost.”
Chukov’s eyes grew even wider as the truth sank in and he realized whom he had been up against all along.
I took one final look into the face of evil and drove both fists into his failing lungs.
“Do svidaniya, modderfocker,” I said.
I started to run. Chukov didn’t follow.
“Matthew, hurry!” Katherine yelled. “The train is coming.”
As if I needed a reminder.
The whistle screamed and screamed and screamed. I turned as best as I could. I could see sparks flying off the wheels as they scraped the metal rails. I could even make out the outline of the motorman in the front cab. I could only imagine the sheer horror in his eyes.
The front of the station was maybe five hundred feet away. I’d never make it. I couldn’t get out of this. I was