Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [154]
As they fought, Finney began to think about all those sleepless nights he’d endured. He thought about Annie Sortland and her burns and rictus teeth, about Gary Sadler saving his life and then dying in the smoke. He thought about the dead waiters and waitresses in the freight elevator. He thought about Spritzer, the firefighter who’d fallen into the street outside, and the woman who’d fallen beside him. About the corpses they’d found in the stairwell. He thought about Bill Cordifis, and as he thought about these things a rage welled up in him.
Stepping forward, he swung right-to-left and then left-to-right, using his arms as if the heavy bar were a kayak paddle. He swung again and again.
Stunned by the rapidity of the assault and the fact that Finney was swinging from both directions, Balitnikoff began edging backward. In the middle of his assault, Finney recognized Balitnikoff’s strategy for what it was, an old Muhammad Ali ploy—the rope-a-dope: let the other guy punch himself out. It would work only as long as he could evade Finney’s blows or absorb the punishment, and only if Finney actually wore himself out.
Working like a farmer with a scythe, he forced Balitnikoff back a step at a time until the bottle on his back butted up against the wall with a melodic clank. Then, before he could get his bearings, Finney stepped in and hit him in the left shoulder, the right hip, left shoulder, right shoulder. Finney fought as if possessed. With all the equipment Balitnikoff was wearing, no single blow was going to bring him down.
He hit Balitnikoff across the side of the helmet, knocking it half-off and cracking the lens on the MSA facepiece. When he connected with Balitnikoff’s forearm, the knife flew off and skidded across the floor.
Weaponless, Balitnikoff bulled forward and grabbed Finney around the shoulders. Face-to-face now, they danced a cumbersome dance. Clean air blew out the sides of Balitnikoff’s dislodged facepiece. Arm-weary, Finney struggled in Balitnikoff’s powerful grasp, managing only to twist around so that they were facing the same direction, his back to Balitnikoff’s chest, the larger man’s arms encircling him from behind. It was a mistake, because in a matter of seconds Balitnikoff maneuvered the crook of one arm around Finney’s throat and began choking him.
Like a pair of mating monsters, they staggered backward out of the room and crashed through a hollow-core door into one of the tenant areas. Finney, seeing stars and streaks of light in front of his eyes, knew he was beginning to black out.
He pushed the larger man off balance, forcing him backward. When he heard Balitnikoff’s composite air tank clank against a window, the sound of the cylinder on the pane solid and heavy, for a split second he thought the glass would break and they would catapult into the street, but these windows didn’t break that easily. The ones without the white dots didn’t break at all.
Finney had only seconds. He pushed with every ounce of strength, but all he accomplished was to run Balitnikoff along the surface of the glass from one side to the other. He still had the Halligan in his hands. He swung hard between his own legs, thinking to hit a leg. Instead, the sound of shattering glass startled him, small plates falling onto the floor, others disappearing silently outside.
Balitnikoff whispered, “Oh, shit!” His grip loosened.
Their combined weight had been pushing hard against the glass when the Halligan cracked it. Balitnikoff had his heels firmly up against the window base and was now holding onto Finney in order to maintain his balance. He might have stepped forward, but the heels of Finney’s boots were against the toes of Balitnikoff’s, locking his feet in place.
Now Finney swung the Halligan hard over his head and down, digging the pick into the surface of a nearby desk as they teetered for a moment, and then Balitnikoff began