There was no choice. He had to find Lena. He had to run straight into the maelstrom.
He jumped out of the Beetle and snatched up the metal lid to a garbage can.
He hadn’t competed in high schools sports like Leo and Anton, but that wasn’t because he wasn’t athletic. On the contrary, a lifetime of hard work in the apple orchards—first, on his parents’ farm, then on the Cecchinos’—had left him in good shape.
Positioning the garbage can in front of him like a shield, Dal plunged into the chaos.
He cut around a clump of people—and found himself face to face with a Russian.
It was like being five-years-old and staring up at his father as he swung a punch.
Dal’s hackles went up. He wasn’t a kid anymore.
He reacted on instinct. Just as the man brought up his gun, Dal swung the garbage can lid. It smacked into the man’s nose. Bone crunched. The Russian screamed.
Dal kicked him in the balls and kept running. He dodged through the chaos and cut left around Sixth Street.
Lena was on Fourth Street. Two blocks to go. He didn’t let himself consider the possibility that she might not be at the coffee shop.
A bullet tore right through the side of the trash can lid. Shit. The thing was useless against bullets. He held onto it anyway and poured on another burst of speed.
A group of people scattered in front of him. Poster board signs were trampled underfoot.
Wage Peace
Nuclear War: Just Say No
Take the Toys Away From the Boys
Nuclear Weapons: May They Rust in Peace
These were people from the rally. Was Lena among them?
Dal barely registered that he was running into the crowd. He was too busy scanning their clothing, looking for Lena’s fluorescent pink shirt and side ponytail.
A woman ran smack into his chest, almost knocking him over. He spun sideways, only to find another Russian.
The man had a long mustache and was ten yards away. He sprayed red darts into the crowd, a wicked grin on his face.
With a roar, Dal rushed the man, holding the trashcan lid in front of him like a battering ram. Darts plinked into the metal. He banged the front of the trashcan lid right into the man’s face. The Russian staggered.
Dal didn’t let up. He swung the lid, smashing the side of the man’s face. His cheekbone crumbled. Blood spurted everywhere.
Dal was sucked back to a time when he was nine years old. It was the first time he threw a punch at his old man. His dad had his mom to the floor, kicking her in the ribs.
Nine-year-old Dal decked him in the side of the face. Even then, his upper body strength had been primed from years of climbing apple trees. He’d hit his dad so hard he’d broken his nose. Blood had sprayed everywhere.
Just like it sprayed out of the Soviet’s smashed cheekbone.
That was the first time his mother had ever turned on him. The first time she had defended his father instead of Dal.
Leave him alone, Dallas, do you hear me?
Dal ran. Just like he had when he’d been nine years old, he turned tail and ran.
Another two blocks of dodging and weaving and pure luck had him at the alleyway behind Fourth Street.
And there she was. Lena.
Her pink shirt was torn. Blood spattered her face and clothing. She had a broken chair leg in her hand, fending off two leering Russians with the tenacity of a bobcat.
She squared off in the alleyway against them. They called to her in cajoling tones. Dal didn’t need to understand Russian to know what they were saying.
Rage boiled up in him. It was white-hot. His vision tunneled. All he could see was Lena and the invaders.
He charged down the back alley like a kamikaze pilot. Just as the Russians registered him, he threw the garbage can lid like an over-sized frisbee.
It spun through the air and clocked the foremost of the Russians in the face. The man reflexively fired his weapon, but bullets sprayed harmlessly into the sky as he toppled backward.
Lena took advantage of the momentary distraction to attack the second Russian. Her chair leg smacked him in the temple. The man dropped.
Dal didn’t have time to contemplate his next move. All he knew was that Lena was in danger and he had to protect her. As the man dropped from the blow to the temple, Dal struck.
His Converse came down on the man’s neck. He stomped. Hard. It wasn’t so different from crushing a spider.
Lena darted past him toward the man who had been struck with the garbage can lid. She swung the chair leg down like an axe. She hit him over and over again until blood coated the pavement. She screamed wordlessly, tears streaming down her face.
“Lena.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Lena, he’s dead.”
“Dal!” She dropped the chair leg and threw her arms around him. Her chest heaved as sobs overtook her.
He held her close, crushing her against him. Relief at finding her alive washed over him like a balm.
“You came.” Her voice came out ragged. “I was so scared ...”
Of course he came. She didn’t really think he’d have left her, did she? “Are you okay?” He gently gripped either side of her face, forcing her to look up at him.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were wild, but he saw Cecchino grit in them. “I’m okay.”
“We have to get out of here. My car is a few blocks away. Can you run?”
She nodded, mouth set in a firm line. She pulled a hand gun from the belt of one of the dead Russians, knuckles white around the handle. “I’ll kill any of those asshole who tries to hurt us.”
He flashed her a grin, liking her train of thought. He kicked aside his trash can lid and grabbed a weapon of his own from a dead Russian: a machine gun. He’d never
