Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [29]
“I told you not to come any closer.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Another step. He was six feet away from me.
I pointed my gun at his chest. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”
He put on a crooked grin. “Is this how you treat your fans, Lieutenant? I don’t mean any harm. You want to shoot an innocent civilian?”
“I don’t want to. But I will, if I feel threatened. And right now I feel threatened. Where’s your buddy?”
“My buddy?”
He was lying, I could see it on his face, and I swirled around, sensing something behind me. I caught a flash of movement, someone ducking between two parked cars. I spun again, storming up to the fat guy, grabbing two of his outstretched fingers and twisting. My action was fast, forceful, and I gained enough leverage to bend his arm to the side and drive him onto his knees, my gun trained on his head.
“Get on the pavement, face down!”
He pitched forward, and I had to let him go or fall with him. Rather than face-first, he dropped onto his side and swung his leg at me.
I should have fired, but a small part of me knew I could be killing a guy whose only crime was wanting my autograph, and I had enough of an ego to think I could still handle the situation. I side-stepped his leg and rammed my heel into his kidney, hard enough to show him this wasn’t a joke.
That’s when his partner dove at me.
He hit me sideways, knocking me off my feet in a flying tackle that drove me to the asphalt, shoulder-first. His weight squeezed the air out of me, his hand pawing at my face, a cold, wet hand covering my mouth and nose, flooding my airway with harsh chemicals. I held my breath, bringing my weapon up, squeezing the trigger—
The trigger wouldn’t squeeze. The gun didn’t fire.
Now the paper towels were in my eyes, the sting a hundred times worse than chlorine, making me squeeze my eyelids shut in pain. I felt my gun being wrestled away, and the small part of my brain that wasn’t panicking knew the perp had grabbed my .38 by the hammer, his grip preventing me from shooting.
I still refused to breathe, knowing that whatever was on my face would knock me out, knowing when that happened I was dead. That made me panic even more, thrashing and pushing against my unseen assailant. I tried to kick my feet, get them under me to gain some leverage, but then they were weighed down the same as my upper body—the fat guy had joined the party.
So I went for the fake-out, letting my body go limp.
The seconds ticked by, each one a slice of eternity since I was oxygen-deprived. I could hold my breath for over a minute under ideal conditions. But terrified and with two psychos on top of me, I wouldn’t be able to last a fraction of that…
One second at a time, Jack. Just don’t breathe.
I felt that vertigo sensation in my head, my mind seeming to stretch out and twist around.
“Is anyone coming?”
“It’s clear.”
Stay still. Don’t breathe.
My eyes were stinging like crazy, and I wanted to put my hands to my face, rub the pain away.
Don’t. Move. Don’t. Breathe.
My chest began to spasm, my diaphragm convulsing and begging for air. In moments it wouldn’t be under my control anymore. I would breathe in those toxic fumes whether I wanted to or not.
Hold it in don’t breathe don’t breathe DON’T BREATHE—
“Too much and you’ll kill her.” The fat guy talking.
The hand over my face eased up, the noxious rag being pulled away. I wanted to gasp, to suck in air like a marathon runner, but I managed to take a slow, silent breath through my nose.
The fumes still clinging to my face smelled like gasoline, and by sheer will I didn’t sneeze or cough. I kept my breathing slow, like I was sleeping, even though my heart pounded so loud and fast I could hear it.
“She’s out. Grab an arm.”
I felt myself lifted into an upright position, my arms over their shoulders. Then I was dragged, my feet scraping against the asphalt, which tore at my bare toes like sandpaper. I bit my inner cheek. If I made a peep, they’d use the rag again.
“Her feet! Watch her feet! I don’t want them messed up!”
“Shh! Lift higher.”
Then I was completely off