The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [187]
“Nnnnnnnn,” I hear myself say, fighting awake as he drags me away from the crypt. Still gripping my shirt, he looks around for a moment. Lisbeth’s unconscious. The First Lady’s gone. Nico’s down. Whatever The Roman had planned, he needs to improvise now. His eyes scan the— That’s when he sees it.
He yanks hard, and I stumble forward, barely able to stay on my feet. Tucking my head under his arm, The Roman spins around, grips me in a headlock, and leads me across the stone path like a dog being tugged from the dining room. The way his sausage wrist wraps around my throat, it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I try to dig in my heels, but my fight’s long gone. Still, it’s not until we cross the stone path that I finally spot our destination. Diagonally behind two matching husband-and-wife gray headstones sits a small patch of grass that shines a bit greener than the rest of the surrounding mossy plots. At the bottom edge of the patch, a small piece of the grass puckers. Like a carpet. Oh, God. That’s Astroturf. He’s dragging me toward— That’s a freshly dug grave.
112
Tugged toward the open hole, I frantically backpedal, almost vomiting up my Adam’s apple. The Roman squeezes the headlock tighter, lugging me toward the hole.
“Get off me!” I scream, clawing at his arm and trying to free my neck. He doesn’t budge, pulling the leash even harder. As my feet slide from the path, through the damp grass, and toward the husband-and-wife graves, my arms and legs flail wildly—at the ground, in the air—searching for something to latch onto. At the foot of the matching rectangular headstones, I grab a branch from a nearby bush. I try holding on, but we’re moving so fast, the sharp woody stems stab into my palm. The pain’s too intense. With a final grunt, The Roman yanks me free, dragging me forward.
The freshly dug grave is dead ahead, but as we squeeze between the matching graves, I lunge to my left and clench one of the headstones. My fingers creep like tarantulas across the front, digging into the engraved letter D in the word HUSBAND.
Enraged, The Roman tightens his vise grip around my throat. I feel my face swell with blood. I still don’t let go. He tugs harder, and my fingers start to slide. From the angle he’s pulling, the sharp granite corner of the rectangular headstone scratches the underside of my forearm. The Roman yanks so hard, I feel like my head’s about to come loose from my neck. My shoulder’s burning. My fingertips start to slide. The granite’s already slick with rain.
Stretching out his leg to the foot of the grave behind us, The Roman kicks off the Astroturf covering. I look up just long enough to see the seven-foot hole . . . the crumbling dirt walls . . .
I dig my fingers in, but the engraving’s only so deep.
The Roman’s right hand is soaked in blood, useless from being shot. No doubt, he’s in pain. But he knows what’s at stake. Leaning forward and closing the vise, he puts his full weight into it. My feet slowly slide across the grass. I try to take a breath, but it doesn’t come—he’s holding too tight. My arm is numb. My fingers start shaking, skidding from their perch. Darkness again presses in from the sides. Please, God, take care of my mom and d—
Blam! Blam!
Small stones spray across my face. The Roman’s grip loosens. And I fall to the wet grass, coughing and hacking as oxygen reenters my lungs.
Above me, the top edge of the husband’s grave is shattered from one of the bullets. I stare at The Roman, who spins to face me. His blue eyes flit anxiously. There’s a brand-new hole in his shirt, at the center of his chest. But no blood. He staggers backward, but not for long.
On my left, just a few feet away, Lisbeth is on her feet and breathing heavily, her own hand bleeding as she grips The Roman’s gun. As she lowers it, she thinks she’s won.
“Lisbeth . . .” I cough, fighting to get the words out. “His vest!”
Lisbeth’s eyebrows leap up.
Snarling like a cheetah, The Roman lunges toward her.
Panicking, Lisbeth raises the gun and clenches the trigger. Two shots