The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [186]
As Nico crashes, The Roman turns his gun toward me. I’m already moving too fast. Lost in momentum, I collide with The Roman like he’s a tackling dummy, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as I ram him at full speed. The impact sends him staggering backward to his left. To my own surprise, it feels like there’s a metal plate against his chest. He learned it from Boyle. Bulletproof vest. The good news is, he’s already weakened from being shot in the hand. We trip over his umbrella in the dirt. I hold tight to his chest, riding him like a lumberjack on a falling tree.
As we crash to the ground, his gun flies from his hand across the wet grass. His back slams into a zigzagging tree root bursting up from the earth, while his head smacks backward into a jagged rock. The vest helps with his back, but his face clenches in pain as the rock jabs his skull.
Scrambling up and digging my knee into his stomach, I grab the collar of The Roman’s shirt with my left hand, pull him toward me, and punch as hard as I can with my right, ramming my fist just above his eye. His head whips into the jagged rock again, and a small cut opens above his left eye. He grits his teeth at the pain, his eyes squeezing shut to protect his sockets. Flushed with adrenaline, I hit him again, and the cut reddens and widens.
The real damage, though, comes from the rock under The Roman’s head. With each of my punches, there’s a sickening dull gkkkk as it drills through his black hair, into the back of his head. Still reeling from being shot, he thrashes his bandaged left hand toward his head, trying to protect himself from the rock.
Refusing to let up, I punch him again. And again. This one’s for all the surgeries. And for having to learn to chew on the left side of my cheek. And for not being able to lick stuff off my lips . . .
Below me, The Roman shoves his bandaged hand between his head and the rock. It’s not until that moment, with my arm cocked in the air, that I realize he’s not protecting his head from the rock. He’s pulling it from the dirt.
Oh, crap.
I punch down as hard as I can. The Roman swings his left arm like a baseball bat. He’s got the jagged gray rock clutched in his fist. I’m fast. He’s faster.
The sharp edge of the rock drills into my jaw like a razor on the tip of a missile, sending me falling to the right and crashing on my shoulder in the soaking grass on the edge of the path. Tasting victory, The Roman’s almost up. Climbing to my feet, I scramble as fast as I can, clambering to get out of there before he can—
He jabs me with the rock, his own personal pile driver. It’s a solid shot too—just above my neck at the base of my skull. I feel every ounce of it. As I stumble forward, unable to slow down, my vision goes blurry, then blinks back. No, don’t pass out . . .
I crash down on my knees and palms as tiny rocks from the stone path gnaw into my hands. The Roman is right behind me. He breathes heavily through his nose. His feet pound at the path, kicking a spray of pebbles at my back. “You’re—!” He grips the back of my shirt. I try to run, but he’s pulling too hard. “You’re fuckin’ dead!” he roars, whipping me around like an Olympic hammer throw and flinging me backward toward the polished stone crypt with the X-shaped wrought-iron bars that protect the red and blue stained-glass doors. If I hit the bars at this speed . . .
There’s a sickening crunch as my spine smacks against it. A half dozen panels shatter and pop like Christmas lights, one right where my head hits the glass. There’s something warm and wet on the back of my neck. If I can feel it, I’m bleeding bad.
As he tugs me forward, my neck goes limp and my head tips back. The rain comes down in slow motion, millions of silver frozen pine needles. My vision goes