Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 01_ The Paradise Snare - A. C. Crispin [132]
Han’s entire right side went numb.
The Corellian crashed back to the permacrete with an agonized grunt. Letting himself go limp, he waited, hoping that he’d regain the use of his right side in time. Depending on the intensity level Shrike was using, it might take two minutes … or ten.
Breathing was torture, but Han gulped down every lungful, ignoring the pain. He needed to get his wind back, in case feeling returned to his right side.
Footsteps approached from his left. Shrike, going around the airshaft Han had hurdled. Han lay still. Only the white plume of his breath revealed that he still lived.
The footsteps paused beside him, circled him. Han could see Shrike’s form dimly, through his eyelashes. Then a boot kicked him viciously in his right leg. Han gasped with the pain. “You low-life scum,” Shrike spat. “For two credits I’d dump your worthless hide off the edge for what you did.”
The fact that Han could feel pain in the place where Shrike’s heavy boot had struck him was good. The stun paralysis was wearing off. But Han did not move, only lay limp as Shrike grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him over the permacrete, bumping and slithering, toward the nearest turbolift.
The trader captain was cursing steadily and, Han realized with a flare of satisfaction, walking with a distinct limp. The Corellian made himself the heaviest, deadest weight he could as he bumped along over the rooftop, feeling the icy scrape of the permacrete. His right hand tingled as it dragged, and that was good, too.
When Shrike reached the turbolift, he let go of Han’s collar. It was hard to just let himself fall, but Han managed to make it look good, without banging his head too hard. Shrike’s glittery-eyed countenance, a bruise darkening his jaw, appeared in his field of vision. “Now we’re going down in this lift, and you’re going to behave yourself, you little vrelt. We’re going to be real chummy, you and me. I’m going to say you’re my buddy who had too much to drink.”
Han could hear the turbolift coming. He flexed the muscles of his right leg, his right arm. They responded, if sluggishly. He didn’t have much time …
“So tell me, Han, did you make it into the Imperial Academy?” Shrike asked, just as though Han could speak. “Is that why you were out treating yourself good tonight, eh?”
He laughed. “The Imps must be real hard up if they’d take a loser like you.” He spat, and warm spittle hit Han’s face, just above his right eye. Han was careful not to react. The turbolift was very close. When those doors opened, Shrike would be distracted for a few precious seconds, and then … then he would make his move.
Imperceptibly, Han flexed his right fingers, and they answered the command of his brain. Shrike was still ranting. “Those Imperials … can’t shoot straight, can’t pilot, and can’t fight worth a hoot. It’s a wonder old Palpatine can get himself out of bed in the morning. All a bunch of losers …”
The turbolift doors opened. Shrike looked up, just as Han lunged up off the permacrete.
The element of surprise served him for a moment. Han managed to knock the blaster out of Shrike’s hand again, but then Garris was on him. Iron-hard hands clamped around the younger man’s throat. Han’s eyes bulged as he hooked a leg behind Shrike’s and sent the man over backward. Shrike didn’t release his grip, so Han went down with him, and they landed in a kicking, punching sprawl.
Han slammed a fist into Shrike’s midsection, heard the man grunt in pain. The fingers around his throat loosened for a second—then. Shrike released his grip and tried to gouge Han’s eye.
His right eye. The viciously gouging thumb skidded in Shrike’s own saliva, and Han turned his head and snapped like an animal. His teeth closed on Shrike’s thumb, clamped down. Shrike screamed as Han tore his flesh. The Corellian tasted blood.
Han took advantage of the