The Tec-9 fell from his grip and swung on its sling. I grabbed the strap, dropped, and jerked it off his shoulder, twisting as I did. Then I released. The machine gun skittered across flagstones without going off.
I moved to follow-up with a chin jab, missing and hitting his chest. High heels were effective weapons, but they also made balancing trickier. By putting so much of my weight behind the stab to his foot and the blow to his arm, I’d left myself unbalanced.
I saw him aim the palm of his hand for my chin, but I couldn’t reverse my momentum fast enough.
My head snapped backward, the blow clanging through my skull. My brain stuttered, overtaken with too much stimuli at once. I staggered, almost going down. Motes of light swirled in my vision just as the pain came.
He lunged at me again, slamming a fist into my solar plexus.
Air burst from my lungs, and I doubled over and tried not to puke.
He came at me again, an old-fashioned right hook this time.
I twisted out of the way, causing his attack to bounce off the top of my skull. But even though it was a glancing blow, the force clanged through my head like a fire bell. I was able to get in close and respond with an elbow strike, snapping it up under his chin, but I wasn’t sure the behemoth even felt it.
“That’s enough.”
I heard the unmistakable sound of someone racking a semi-auto.
Udelhoffer and I both stumbled to a halt. Above us on the steps, Hawk Nose glared down, a 9mm pointed at my chest.
Another dark-haired man emerged from the house, one I hadn’t seen before. Wearing a white Scarface suit, he held an automatic pistol.
Outnumbered and outgunned, I dropped my gaze and rounded my shoulders, looking submissive.
“Take her inside. Think you can handle that, Udelhoffer?”
The brute grumbled, breathing hard. He wrapped his left arm around my right like a bridegroom escorting me down the aisle, then grabbed my hand, locking me into place by his side. It was a hold often used by police to convince unruly civilians to come along without a fuss. Just a little pressure and he could easily bring me to the ground or break my elbow.
I gasped as if he was hurting me. “Let me go. Please.”
He forced me back in the direction of the house.
The pulse of helicopter blades speeding up their rotation registered somewhere in the back of my mind. If that craft lifted off, Julianne was gone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
The man’s training and size would enable him to counter any move I threw at him. My only shot was suckering him into underestimating me. I thrashed against him ineffectively, hoping to convince him this was all I had left to give.
“Knock it off.” He put pressure on my wrist, and I let out a cry of pain that wasn’t entirely acting.
I let him lead me past the pool, and we started up the shallow flagstone steps. Above us, Hawk Nose lowered his pistol. Apparently satisfied that Udelhoffer was under control, he and the other man turned and slipped into the house ahead of us.
Halfway up, I stumbled a little, getting out of step, throwing him slightly off balance. Then I made my move.
I veered toward him and reached down with my free hand, grabbing his balls and yanking them like the handle of a Nautilus machine.
He released my arm, buckling over with a grunt. No matter how much hand-to-hand training a man had, when you went below the belt he forgot everything and tried to protect the goods.
As he leaned forward I slipped to the side, grabbing his shoulder, using his momentum to carry him forward and introduce his head to the stone planter at the top of the stairs. He hit it with a dull thud, then crumpled to the ground.
I didn’t know if I’d killed him or merely incapacitated him, and I didn’t wait to find out. I raced down the stairs and past the pool, kicking the shoes from my feet as I ran for the helicopter.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do once I reached it. I had no weapon, no plan. The aircraft was a purple Bell 427, under ten years old. Twin engine, light utility, seated eight. Through the cabin doors I saw four people inside, one of them the pilot, one Julianne. I’d been trained to fly several different varieties of chopper, including more common types used for corporate flying, but I didn’t think they were just going to hand over the keys because I asked nicely.
Voices erupted behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I ran in a zigzag pattern, waiting for the pop of gunfire, but it never came.
Then I heard grunting behind me; a runner, giving chase.
I straightened course and pushed more energy into my legs. The grass was stiff and harsh against the soles of my feet, jabbing and slicing. The copter backwash was hot, smelled like exhaust, blowing faster and louder every step closer, until I couldn’t hear my pursuer anymore.
But I knew he was still there.
Ahead the helicopter shifted to one side, then started to lift.
I hit a dip in the ground and stumbled to one knee. Pushing off, I righted myself and ran harder.
I could feel the man behind me now, feel his footsteps gaining. I was fast, but in a few strides he would overtake me.
I was nearly upon the aircraft. Sand particles pelted my skin, stirred into the air by the blades. Hair whipped across my eyes. The chopper was now three feet in the air, rising fast.
There was only one thing I could do, and I couldn’t believe I was actually going to attempt it.
Once I passed under the chopper, I leaped for all I was worth. My fingertips hit the right skid. I grabbed on, one hand slipping. The helicopter swayed and bucked and for a moment, and I thought the whole thing might come down on top of me. I made another swipe with my loose hand, and this time my fingers held and the helicopter lifted me into the air.
My pursuer was right beneath me. His arms closed around my legs, binding, holding tight. It was the Tony Montana wannabe.
I twisted, fighting to break free.
The chopper tipped and veered to the right.
I pulled a foot loose and kicked, hitting him in the forehead with my heel, but he wouldn’t let go.
The blades canted, dangerously low to the ground. One hit and it would be over for all of us. I’d seen a bird cartwheel before. They never found all the pieces of the dead.
I pummeled Scarface with my bare heel, the force shuddering up my leg. His hold slipped. He clawed at my knee, locking my ankle in his armpit, but I kept up my assault, driving my foot into his head, his face, as we ascended.
My grip was one of my best skills. I could crack walnuts barehanded. Once, during training, I hung onto an iron bar for six hours.
But I didn’t have an extra hundred eighty pounds gripping my ankles, or the extra g-force of liftoff. Unable to hold on, my left hand slipped off the skid.
My right wrist turned, and I felt like I was being pulled in half. I chanced a look down, saw the ground blurring beneath me, and got a straight shot of fear.
Fear was an ugly, destructive thing. It enveloped you, made you doubt yourself, clouded your thinking and muddied your ability to act.
But human physiology also provided a plus to counter all of those minuses. The fear kick-started my adrenal cortex, and I got a pop of adrenaline that made me feel like my muscles had been electrified.
Screaming against the pain, the weight, I slapped my loose hand up against the skid and doubled my kicking efforts, aiming for my assailant’s nose, feeling each impact shudder up from my heel to my palms.
Say! Hello! To! My! Little! Friend!
Scarface finally let go when we were high enough for the fall to break his neck.
The helicopter rolled in the other direction, and it was all I could do to hold on. The air swirled around me, beating like fists. Tears filled my eyes and streaked my face. Hair lashed my cheeks.
If I lived through this, I swore I’d shave my head.