My eyes go wide as I balance on my tiptoes, trying to keep the ground beneath me as he lifts and squeezes, restricting my ability to breathe. I grab his wrists with both hands, frantically trying to loosen his grip.
That doesn’t work.
I start hammering down on his elbows, trying to force his arms to bend and take some of the pressure out of his vice-like grip.
That works a little, but he’s not letting up that easily.
My lungs start to burn as I gasp for oxygen, not getting anywhere near the amount that I need to stay awake. My arms are throbbing in agony from the wounds inflicted on both my shoulders now, so I can’t get as much power behind the blows as I need to.
When in doubt, go low.
I position myself as best I can and without warning launch my right foot into his balls, like I’m kicking a fifty yard field goal in the Superbowl.
That loosens his grip.
He yells as he lets go and staggers back, clutching his groin. I take a few paces back myself, putting some distance between us while I recover. My throat’s sore and feels like it’s starting to bruise already from where he’d gripped me. I look around the expanse of the old Quartermaster building, trying to find my equipment. Where the hell are my guns?
Oh, there they are… in the middle of the room next to a couple of upturned crates on the floor. Behind Gregovski…
Fucking brilliant.
I guess I’m going to have to fight this sonofabitch, aren’t I…
He looks up, shaking the effects of my kick away. He runs at me with a speed not befitting a man his size, arms wide and high, ready to slam down on me. The guy’s big. Like, really big. He looks like a Neanderthal on steroids — a big, thick brow and long arms the size of my legs. He’s definitely strong as well. But he’s slow — hindered by his size and weight. I haven’t been a hundred percent for a few hours and I’m certainly nowhere near that now, but I figure I’m still quicker than he is. And that’s my only advantage. That’s how I’m going to beat him. I’m faster than he is. And I can guarantee I’m better trained and more violent than he is too.
As he comes at me, I quickly play out every possible defensive technique in my head — what if I move left? What if I duck and feint right? Everything. I consider what could work and what definitely won’t.
Ah, when in doubt…
I let him get maybe five feet away from me, and I jump forward, snapping my forehead toward him in an arc, as if it were a dead weight. I time it perfectly with the jump, and I connect with the bridge of his nose, where it angles out in between the eyes. It’s like he'd run into a wall. The impact takes away all his momentum instantly, and he stops dead, stunned by shock and pain in equal measure.
His arms are by his sides, so his face was unprotected. I stare at him for a moment, frowning to ignore the throbbing pain in my head, seeing what he’s going to try next. He’s just standing there, eyes still wide, but confusion replaces the anger. I prepare to launch a right elbow at his head, but a shout from above distracts me.
“What the fuck is going on?”
It’s Pellaggio, who’s on the top floor, looking down over the railing. I look up and we lock eyes for a moment, then he disappears out of sight.
“Shoot him!” I hear him shout.
I can hear footsteps along the gantry as his two remaining men set off running for the stairwell at the far end.
I should probably get my guns…
I take a step toward the MP5 but Gregovski cuts me off, blocking my path having made good use of the small reprieve and recovered.
“I’m looking forward to killing you, Adrian Hell!” he says with an evil smile.
“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how many Russians have said that to me… And every one of them is dead from trying,” I reply.
“Not all of them,” he says cryptically, smiling before swinging for me once more.
I duck under his right hand, but catch his follow-up left on my ribs. I see him go for my throat again, and I block his hand and duck down to deliver a left hook to his right kidney.
It knocks him back a little, so I roll under and do the same on the other side — right hook to the left kidney. Again, it sends him back again and looks like it hurt him a bit more this time. Regardless, he remains stubbornly upright in front of me, his large arms held high in a loose fighting guard.
The magical thing about a blow to the kidney is that it has a devastating effect on the body, causing pain, nausea, and loss of balance. But it has a delayed reaction. It takes your body roughly ten seconds to process the impact and react accordingly. He just took two very nasty punches to his kidneys, one to each side, so he’s about to have a very bad day…
We stand looking at each other as the seconds pass. He bares his teeth again, like a caged beast taunting its prey. I simply stand and smile.
Three… Two… One…
Gregovski’s eyes go wide as he keels over and drops on all fours, vomiting profusely before falling over into a fetal position — his body going into something similar to shock as his brain finally registers the shots to his kidneys.
Goodnight sweetheart!
Satisfied he’s down for the count, I make my way over to my guns, crouch down, and take a Beretta from the holster. As I’m drawing it, I hear the familiar sound of a gun being cocked behind me.
No… two guns.
I look up and see two guys standing over me. My friend, Jones, is on the left, with someone else next to him. They must’ve made it down the stairs quicker than I thought they would. They’ve both got me dead to rites, and I doubt very much they’re going to hesitate for one second.
Shit!
The one on the right smiles, and I see his finger tense on the trigger.
“So long, asshole!” he yells.
I can’t believe they got the drop on me like that. I didn’t give them anywhere near as much as credit as I should’ve done. I was too busy focusing on Gregovski.
Shit, shit, shit!
I close my eyes and take a long, deep, painful breath as I wait for the inevitable.
Two gunshots sound out, making me flinch with surprise.
What the…?
I open one eye and look around. Then I open the other, just to be sure. Then I pat myself down as a final check.
Nope — definitely not dead…
I look at the two guys who were about to shoot me. Jones and his friend are lying on the ground with blood pouring from bullet holes in their chests.
Seriously, what the fuck just happened?
I look all around the building, quickly resting my gaze on the main door on the right hand side. It’s open, and Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers is standing in the doorway, gun in hand.
“Hey,” she says, smiling.
“Hey,” I replied, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your ass, by the looks of it.”
“Yeah, thanks for that. But seriously, why aren’t you on the Jeremiah?”
“Agent Wallis has it covered, working with the Secret Service. Obviously, they remained steadfast in their stance that nothing will change, so I figured I was more use to you. I took a speedboat over here, then spoke to Josh to find out where you were.”
“Not spoke to him — I lost comms when I got blown up earlier.”
“Blown up? Jesus Christ! Are you alright? What happened?” she asked, full of concern as she races over to me.
She smiles, and it makes me feel better. And even more so, the fact she has my back. I can feel myself beginning to trust her.
As she’s walking toward me, she shouts, “Adrian, look out!”
A hail of bullets streams down, narrowly missing us both. I look up and see Pellaggio screaming from the top floor, leaning over the balcony, and firing down at us.