Aaron hadn’t said anything to me, but I imagined that his daily access to the entire legal landscape of Drake must have given him a glimpse of something insidious. He would’ve kept it secret from me, for fear that my unstoppable lungs would have bellowed it to anyone who’d listen. I couldn’t blame him. He was right.
I worked my way back up to a full sprint, capitalizing on the downhill grade, ignoring the cramps and the strains. I was nearing a huge area of boulders nestled near the river, coming around a blind corner, top speed, when the following disaster happened faster than I could process:
1. I heard a pop.
2. I crashed into an obstacle I didn’t think would be there and bounced off.
3. I realized it was a man.
4. He and I locked eyes in a moment of mutual shock.
5. We agreed not to be friends.
Chapter 11
He was a mercenary. In what felt like one millisecond after our collision, he decked me across the jaw, hard. I recoiled backward. If Mr. SUV Driver was a dangerous man, this second guy was a nuclear war.
You could see it in his eyes: this wasn’t a person, this was a professional killer. He was dressed for attacking things—soldier pants, Kevlar vest, handgun, hiking boots.
I was on my back. I’d never been hit before. Not even my older sister, Valentina, would punch me. We were slappers and that ended at age nine.
I had surprised him, but well-trained instinct enabled him to regain the upper hand. I would’ve assumed, prior to this moment of my life, that it would hurt to get hit; but it actually was too shocking. I hadn’t read the “So You’re About to Be Punched in the Jaw” orientation brochure, but it might explain that with the hit, your grasp on reality vaporizes. You get stupider.
So there I was, on the dirt, catching up with my current reality. He was slowly approaching me but I was too cloudy to even scoot myself backward. I just stayed there. Done.
And then my enemy noticed something, at the same moment that I did.
He stopped in his tracks, a bewildered expression now on his face, replacing the steel of a moment before. He was looking down at his left hand, palm-up as if checking for raindrops. The raindrop was red, and it had come from his shoulder.
He had been shot. By me.
Chapter 12
I vaguely remembered hearing a pop. That was the sound of my gun going off, though I hadn’t realized it way back seven seconds ago. I’d been carrying my rifle, running along rather blithely with my hand loosely on the trigger, when I slammed into the back of him. A car rear-ending another car. Thrown to the ground when he punched me, I must’ve pulled the trigger.
The whole transaction had taken place in the blink of an eye. The bullet must have entered him in the shoulder and exited in the upper part of his back. I’d been quite certain I’d walked into my own execution just now. Yet here we were, both motionless, both in shock.
He began to inspect himself beyond his palm, noting the expanding circle of blood on his shirt. His injury looked severe.
But not crippling.
“Now” flashed in my mind. I scrambled for the gun (who is this new Miranda, operating my body?), which had fallen to my side. I fumbled, grabbed it, and spun to take aim. He dove forward, right at me. I got lucky once, but rifles are not effective close-range weapons, which he proved by diving on me.
Our fight wasn’t over. Our fight had just begun.
Thank God there was a bullet in him, or through him, because this was the strongest living organism I had ever put my hands on. I used to playfight with Aaron in bed, knew his contours and weaknesses. These muscles here, from Mr. Kevlar, were unbelievable. Hard as rock. Huge. And trying to kill me.
I desperately curled into a fetal position and received a hit in the ribs that took my breath away. Oh, God. I caught his wrist and clung to it, in a weak attempt to disable one of those bionic arms. This would be painfully fast—I’d be knocked out with two more punches. But I dimly realized we had begun rolling.
Toward the river.
He pulled me into him, trying to bring my head down to knee my face like it was a martial arts fight on TV, but I used all my strength to turn away from his right side. I was, in effect, cranking the two of us in a sideways tango downhill, toward the river.
We rolled at first slowly, quarter turn by quarter turn, as he battered me with his fist. Before, I’d been too shocked for his hits to register. Well, now, I was exquisitely feeling them. Every single one. The head, the neck, the head again, the ribs, trying to get me to release my grip.
My grip?
I somehow had my hands gripped around his throat now.
My fingers clutched as hard as they could, a relentless hold on his nape, with my thumbs pushing into his voice box. My own strength surprised me. Call it rage, call it maternal instinct, call it whatever you want—I was operating under the influence of pure adrenaline. I was much smaller than this man, but he was now up against a climber’s hands. My grip was life or death.
“Who are you?” I said through gritted teeth. Our faces were close enough that I could see the vessels around his pupils.
Then the horizon began to flip over behind him. We were rolling. But I didn’t care. I was peering deep into his eyes.
“Who are you?!” I repeated as the horizon continued to turn, as we tumbled toward the last ledge on the cliff.
He didn’t blink, even more of an automaton than Mr. SUV Driver.
He hit me again. I withstood it. I don’t know how. Simply adrenaline? I knew that my gun was on
