The Fury - Jason Pinter [81]
Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside
the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned
underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like
he was the one being attacked.
I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man's
head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter
helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees
pinned on his arms--just in case he had another weapon
handy--I placed my palm under his chin and forced
him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets
to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I
patted him down--legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow
into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was
very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I
found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a
few crumpled singles and a driver's license.
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Jason Pinter
Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry
picture ID.
Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt
slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight
forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel
him squirm out from under me as my head smacked
against the pavement.
I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck
made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for
a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around,
trying to locate the knife. He couldn't find it, and by that
point I'd managed to prop myself up. I took my keys
from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key
sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift
pair of brass knuckles.
The man saw me do this. Looking around once more
for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, "You
don't watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn't
bother you, maybe we'll stick one in your old lady, too."
Then he sprinted away and didn't look back.
I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If
I hadn't seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.
I remembered that I'd taken his wallet and removed
the license. The man's name was Trent Buckley. His
license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and
ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley
resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated
2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New
York from Colorado.
Who sent him here? And how did he know where I
lived? And who was Buckley referring to as "we"?
Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the
The Fury
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abandoned street, wondering if someone else was
waiting to pounce.
Then my mind went to one place.
Amanda.
My "old lady." Did they really know who she was or
where to find her?
If someone was after me, they could very well know
various ways to get to me.
I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.
Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing
one right now.
Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front
door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment
for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was
pasted over the jamb.
I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I
reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I
opened it with the caution of a man who'd previously
wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho
pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was
nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest
suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.
I had no idea what garments were most important to
Amanda, so hopefully she'd forgive me if in my haste
I couldn't put together a matching outfit.
Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut
and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back
down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began
waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for
a cab to see me and pick me up.
"The Kitten Club," I said breathlessly.
The driver nodded, and off we went.
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Jason Pinter
The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As
well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was
where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.
Strangely, once the investigation