“Either way, you’re going to die. Why not make it easy on yourself?”
Ben grabbed the hand and pulled it toward his mouth. He opened wide and bit down hard.
“Eeeeeeah!” The man drew his hand back, his blood spilling. Barely a second later, though, the fist returned. It slammed into Ben’s face, once more pummeling his nose. He felt a crack and in that moment realized that the man must have broken his nose. Blood was jetting downward onto his lips. The world was whirling; he could barely see, much less focus. He couldn’t possibly resist any longer.
“You’ve played your swan song,” the man said, and Ben watched helplessly as the silvery serrated knife inched closer to his throat …
The man with the knife suddenly lurched sideways, his head striking the steering wheel.
“What the—”
Ben stared, not comprehending. He’d thought his time was up, but someone appeared to have struck the killer from behind.
“Who—”
Before Ben could spit out another word, the man lurched forward again.
“Here’s a little something to remember me by,” Ben heard another voice say.
“Gaaak!”
All of a sudden, the man with the knife tumbled into the van. At first Ben thought he was lunging to make the kill; then he realized the man’s legs had gone out from under him. He fell forward; his chin thudded down on the steering wheel.
Ben had no idea what had happened, but he knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Summoning all his might, he grabbed the man’s head and bashed it against the steering column. The man cried out again, and his head and body slid out the door.
Ben made his move. He scrambled up on all fours and crawled into the passenger seat, then crawled out the other side of the van.
He sped away, heading at top speed toward the safety of the opposite side of the street.
“Kincaid!” It was Tyrone Jackson, standing behind the crumpled assailant. “Are you all right?” Tyrone cried.
“I’ll live,” Ben shouted. “Get out of here. Go to—”
He never had a chance to finish. Like some crazed monster out of hell, the man brandishing the knife suddenly reared up, blood dripping from his chin. He lunged toward Tyrone.
Tyrone jumped back, lost his balance, tumbled onto the gravel. The man just kept coming, knife extended. Tyrone scrambled to his feet, turned and ran, never looking back. He passed the road and headed toward Rockwood.
The man with the knife seemed to have forgotten all about Ben. He was following Tyrone now, matching his speed.
“Damn!” Ben swore to himself. All he wanted now was to get the hell out of here. But he couldn’t abandon Tyrone to that maniac. He ran across the street after them, running as fast as he could, but he’d lost sight of them before he even made it to the ruins. His first instinct was to plunge on in, to try to pick up their trail. But he knew that wasn’t the smartest option. He wasn’t likely to find them by himself, running around in the dark. He needed help.
“Damn!” Ben raced back toward the van. He could call 911 on his car phone. That had to be smarter than wandering around dark unfamiliar ruins by himself. He just hoped it wasn’t too late already.
As he punched the beeping buttons, Ben cursed himself for not being faster. “Damn, damn, damn!” he repeated, as if it might do some good. “Damn, damn, damn!”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Tyrone kept telling himself, as he raced through the mazelike alley he once called home. What did he think he was doing? Who did he think he was, some superhero or something?
He had been perfectly safe up on the roof. He could see everything that happened, and no one could see him. No one could get to him. No one could even imagine he was there.
But then he had seen that fool Kincaid drive up, and a few moments later, the killer had emerged from the darkness. He’d been lurking in the trees on the other side of the street—waiting for Tyrone to return to his car, no doubt. When Kincaid showed up, he decided to take him instead.
So Tyrone ran down and tried to help Kincaid out. Looked like he would’ve been a goner if Tyrone hadn’t come up from behind and given the man a swift kick where he knew he’d feel it. Problem was, now the killer was after him.
He saw the fire escape approaching on the right. It would be great to be able to retreat to the roof, but he knew he’d never make it. He could hear the footsteps of the man chasing him; he wasn’t far behind. If Tyrone tried to climb that ladder, the maniac would cut his legs out from under him. He just didn’t have time for that. He had to keep running.
He had to keep running, sure, but unless he thought he could run forever, he had to lose the man, and the sooner the better. Even though he knew that creep had to be hurting from the beating he’d taken, he was having no trouble keeping up.
He seemed to be inexhaustible. He would never give up. He would hunt Tyrone till he killed him.
He whipped around the next corner, ducking into an alleyway. It was littered with debris, bottles, crushed cans, human waste. He leapt from side to side, trying to avoid anything that might slow him down. He couldn’t see anything until he was almost on top of it.
He made it to the end of the alley, weaving and dodging, then leaned against the wall. He had to take a breather.
He pricked up his ears. Maybe he’d lost the creep, he thought and prayed. Maybe, just maybe.
But no. An instant later, he heard footsteps entering the alley. There was a loud metallic clanging; the man had crashed into something, probably an overturned trash can. He was bare seconds behind.
Tyrone forced himself to run. His throat ached with dryness and he had a stitch in his side that wouldn’t go away, but he had to keep running. If he stopped he was history. But for how long? he asked himself. How long could he keep this up?
As long as that maniac with the knife?
Probably not.
If he was going to survive, he had to figure out a way to end this chase—before it ended him.
He did have one advantage, he reminded himself as he raced down the next dark corridor. He knew Rockwood. He’d grown up around here. He’d played in these ruins. As a teen gang member, he’d practically lived here. He knew the terrain, and that knife-wielding crazy behind him almost certainly didn’t. There had to be some way he could use that particular piece of information. There had to be some way he could use it to turn this hopeless situation into a fighting chance to live.
There had to be a way, he kept repeating to himself. And then he thought of it.
Tyrone took a sharp right and detoured into a darkened alley, circling back toward the side from which they had entered. Two alleyways later, still running at top speed, he was beside the old cab company building, coming at it from the opposite side. He couldn’t possibly see in this pitch blackness, but he knew the crater was still there.
He ran toward it with all the strength he could muster, all the wind he could kick out of his lungs. Coming down at top speed he hit the midpoint and jumped. He flew through the air; probably setting some new long-jump record, he thought, but no one would ever know it but him.
He tumbled down onto the concrete on the other side, hands and feet first. It was an inelegant landing, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d made it across.
Gasping for breath, he hobbled over to the side of the wall, pressed himself against it, and listened. Barely a second later, he heard the all-too-familiar crunch of footsteps barreling down the alley, coming closer, closer still …
And then suddenly—nothing. Feet touching down on air. He heard a short gasp—all the man could get out before he tumbled into the crevice. Tyrone heard the crunch of flesh on rock as the man tumbled into the deep crater.