Killers - Blake Crouch [13]
Donaldson’s eyes flipped open.
No. You’re not going to win, little girl.
He attacked the last screw with a hatred so fierce he could handle the agony.
It took twelve complete turns to get the son of a bitch out.
And then Donaldson was done.
His arm no longer looked human. More like a giant, pulsing earthworm, gooey with blood, the skin purple with hematomas. He carefully pulled off the brace, threading his ruined appendage through it, laughing as he hefted its weight. Solid surgical steel, at least five pounds of metal, screws protruding out like spikes on a medieval war mace.
Hysterical, Donaldson’s tears turned into hoarse laughter.
You fuckers made sure there were no weapons in my room.
But you forgot one.
He focused on the cop.
Still asleep.
The clock.
2:27.
Three minutes until Winslow showed.
Donaldson yanked off his head gear, bent and twisted from his thrashing, and set it on the pillow behind him as he heaved his bulk into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the bandages from his skin graft surgery soaked in blood.
When he stood up Donaldson almost collapsed onto the floor. It felt like his entire body was made of pudding. His ravaged left arm hung at his side, useless, and the bloody brace clutched in his right hand looked comically inadequate.
I’m going to pass out before I even get to the cop.
Donaldson closed his eyes, feeling the blood drain from his head, knowing he was about to lose consciousness.
Once again, an image of Lucy saved him. That little whore’s face smiling after she’d handcuffed Donaldson to the car bumper.
Rage displaced the wooziness, and he took three quick, lumbering strides over to the door, reaching the cop before he could turn around, raising up the brace and savagely bringing it down onto the lawman’s skull.
There was a crack like a board splintering. The cop flopped over, off his chair, raising up his forearm to protect himself.
Donaldson adjusted his aim, swinging the brace sideways, a protruding screw connecting with the cop’s temple, where it became embedded.
Embedded, and also stuck, which Donaldson discovered when he tried to pull it back.
The cop’s hands flailed, pulling at the brace, his legs flopping around and kicking the tile floor. Donaldson shifted his bulk, dragging the man inside his room, and then with a single, violent twist, he yanked the brace free, along with a quarter-sized piece of skull.
From that point on, it was like hammering a nail, bringing down the surgical steel again and again and again and again until the cop finally stopped moving.
Sweating, shaking, and—quite incongruously—giggling, Donaldson tossed the brace back onto his bed, and used his good arm to drag the pig into the bathroom. He was exhausted, pain crawling over his entire body like red ants. But he was also exhilarated. Killing was the best drug in the world.
And like an addict, Donaldson craved more.
The plan had been to dress in the cop’s uniform. But there was no time, no possible way Donaldson could ever fit his mangled arm into a shirt sleeve. So instead Donaldson took the man’s gun—a 9mm Beretta—and flipped off the safety.
Moving quickly, he slipped into the hallway just as the clock hit 2:29, padded one door over, and ducked into the adjacent room.
There was a man asleep in bed, lightly snoring. A big guy, lumberjack type. The chart on his bed read R. Bolton. Donaldson considered his next move, judged the large man to be a potential threat if he awoke, and then moved another room down.
This bed was occupied by a sleeping old woman. Easy pickings. Even better, she was hooked up to a heart monitor.
Donaldson approached the bed and raised the gun.
Wait. No fun in that.
Better to wake her first.
“Hey. Lady.”
She peeked open her rheumy eyes, the pupils growing wide at the sight of him.
“Do you have a family?” Donaldson asked.
She nodded, eyes flitting back and forth between him and the gun. The heart machine went BEEEEEP……BEEEEEP……BEEEEEP…
“People who love you?”
“What do you want?” Her voice was like dry, autumn leaves crackling