The rocket hits Frank’s car, which disappears in a thunderous explosion and a brilliant flash of light that sears my eyes as the force of the blast hits me, sending me crashing backward and through the door, taking it off its hinges.
I’m lying flat on my back, on top of the door on the floor of my motel room. Every time I blink, I see flashes of white — my eyes sore from the blast. My ears are ringing too and I’m disoriented as I prop myself up on my elbows.
“Is everyone alright?” I ask, hoping for a response.
I sit up and look around the room. Frank’s lying face down on the floor on the other side of the bed. Josh is still sitting at the table, his hands frozen over the keyboard of his laptop, his eyes transfixed on the now open doorway, and his jaw hanging loose.
“What the…?” he starts. “Adrian!”
“I’m alright, I’m alright,” I say, holding a hand up and waving it slowly. “Did anyone see who or what hit us?”
“No, we heard you shout, then everything went boom.”
“Frank, you okay?” I shout over.
He grunts, which I take as a sign he’s fine, albeit a little shocked and disgruntled that his car’s just been decimated.
I stand slowly, blinking and rubbing my eyes in an effort to clear my vision. I look out of the doorway at the parking lot. The sedan is a flaming wreck, with car parts littering the area. I step outside, feeling the heat from the explosion on my skin. I can’t see anything, or anyone, but as the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear a motorcycle approaching from the left. Behind me, I hear Josh shout something to Frank, but the words are drowned out as a black Ducati turns into the parking lot and comes to a stop just inside the entrance. A leather-clad figure climbs off it, dressed completely in black. They have a rocket launcher, loaded, over their shoulder and a gun belt around their waist with a pistol attached. They walk toward me, undoing the chinstrap on their helmet. As they lift it off, long dark hair falls out and rests on their shoulders.
“Hey, big boy,” says Dominique Tevani, as she drops the helmet on the ground and draws her pistol in one swift motion. “You miss me?”
“Oh…” I say, trying to hide my surprise and displeasure. “It’s you. I kinda hoped me and you had developed an understanding after we last met?”
She smiles that killer smile, but without any of the playfulness I saw before.
“That was a momentary lapse of reason,” she says. “Nothing more.”
She fires off a few rounds in succession, causing me to run to the right, staying low and diving for cover behind a group of bushes that runs periodically around the border of the parking lot.
Without a moment’s reprieve, I hear her drop the pistol, swing the rocket launcher around on its shoulder strap, and take aim at my room.
“No!” I yell, but it was futile.
She pulls the trigger and fires. The rocket makes its whooshing noise again — only it sounds much louder this time. A second later, my room and the ones either side of it explodes in a shower of brick and fire.
I look over from my cover as flames billow out in all directions. My eyes are wide with a mixture of emotions, including fear, anger, and sadness. I don’t know what to think, and as my brain fights to kick into survival mode, I just about manage a single word.
“No…”
I’m kneeling behind the bush, staring blankly at the remains of the motel for what feels like hours. But my brain finally kicks into gear and tells me I’ve only been there a few seconds, and that I need to take out my Berettas and fight.
So I do.
I reach behind me, drawing both guns simultaneously, and then stand and walk purposefully toward Dominique, firing round after round at the beautiful bitch that’s just blown up my best friend and my brother-in-law.
She standing, still holding the rocket launcher, looking on with proud satisfaction at the carnage she’s caused. My bullets distract her and she dives to her right, dropping the launcher and retrieving her pistol before returning fire.
We both zigzag and run and dive behind whatever we can, trading bullet for bullet. I’m squeezing the triggers in sheer anger. I’m not even aiming at her; really, I just want to fire at her over and over again, to let my pain and hatred flow out of me with every round.
She clicks on an empty chamber a second before I do. We both stare at each other for a moment, catching our breath, feeding off the adrenaline and feeling the heat from the flames. In the distance, I hear sirens. All kinds of emergency services will be arriving in a few minutes.
I throw my guns down and run at her. She does the same, and we meet in the middle near her motorcycle. I know against someone like her that leading with an attack is be a bad move, so I anticipate her first punch, which is a right hook to the kidney, and lead with a block with my left arm. Positioned correctly, she punches the bend of my elbow. She doesn’t miss a beat, and immediately counters with a swinging left hook aimed high at my left temple.
I see it coming a mile away, so I duck and roll under it to my right, before launching my own — a straight right punch — at her face, which connects sweetly on her left cheek. As she rocks backward from the impact, I step through and push my right foot through the kneecap of her back leg. The angle is perfect, so it doesn’t break, but it knocks her farther off-balance and sends her crashing to the ground. I take a step toward her but hesitate, my survival instincts taking over from my emotions, protecting me. I let her get back to her feet. She’s favoring her right leg after the kick to her knee, but she isn’t fazed at all.
“Screw you, Adrian!” she yells over the noise of the crackling flames. “Just accept it — you’ve got nothing left. I’m doing you a favor taking your life. What have you got to live for?”
I raise an eyebrow. It’s a classic attempt to knock me off my game psychologically. I was trained a long time ago to stop myself from reacting to any degree of mental attack like that. What I’m surprised at, is how quickly she’s resorted to what we in the business would consider a last resort tactic. Is she really getting that desperate so quickly?
I smile back at her and slowly shake my head. “Nice try.”
She charges at me again, leading with a roundhouse kick from the right that’s aimed at my side. I hook my left arm under the leg, catching it and absorbing what little impact made it through. I’m going to drop my right elbow down across her extended leg, as it’ll cause farther damage to her knee. But as I’m about to, she jump up with her left leg and hooks it round, kicking it into my right temple. It takes me by surprise, and I let her go as I drop to my knees. My head’s spinning from the impact and it momentarily disorients me.
She lands on her front, but bounces back to her feet and pounces on me immediately. She delivers a knee to my jaw, which I just about manage to get my hands in front of, but I do little to parry it. It sends me sprawling backward to the ground. I have no comprehension of my surroundings as I lie spread-eagled on the parking lot, looking up at a sky black with smoke and alive with the glow of the blaze.
I grunt in pain as she leaps on me, straddling my chest. Her thighs tighten, gripping my sides like a vice and squeezing the air out of me. I buck once with my hips, as hard as I can, but she holds on and rains down blow after blow on my face. I get both my arms up, and my forearms take the brunt of the punishment, but I’m in serious trouble if I stay where I am for long…
I thrust my hips up again, this time dislodging her slightly. Sensing a way out, I buck one last time and roll to my left. She loses her grip and falls to the side. I continue to roll over and wind up on top of her with her legs either side of me, resting on my hips. She manages to keep me at a distance by pushing down with her legs, forcing my hips back, but I land a couple of good shots to her head and body.