Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

pistol. He began walking toward me with the gun in his hand, swinging it casually at his side.
    “I’m here,” he said into the phone. “And heads up, you’ve got company out there. I’m on my way.”
    He snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket, never taking his eyes off me.
    “Recognized your name right off, but wasn’t sure it was you until you mentioned your kid.” He stopped for a moment, studied me. “Shame you’re so pretty. I hate waste.”
    He started toward me again. It seemed the closer he got, the faster he walked, despite his limp.
    “Sorry, sweetheart. She hates when I’m late.” He raised the gun.
    As he closed in, I aimed my light straight at his eyes. He flinched, and I rushed forward and tried a front kick. My foot connected with the underside of his forearm and knocked away the gun. It hit the slab with a smack. Scud entangled the leg I’d used to kick and shoved it upward until I fell backward on the concrete. I broke the fall with my hands, but lost my flashlight. It rolled to the base of the metal wall and barely lit the area around us. When I got my feet under me, I saw Scud retrieve the gun from the floor.
    Two shots rang out from the main part of the hangar.
    I lunged toward Scud before he could take aim and grabbed his hand and wrenched it toward me. I bit the meaty part of his thumb as hard as I could, forcing my teeth into flesh until I tasted the metallic tang of blood. The gun clacked on the concrete beside my knee. I reached for it, but Scud closed a fist over my hair and yanked my head backward so my grasp came up short. I managed to kick the gun and heard it slide toward the Cessna mock-up.
    I twisted under his grip until I was off my knees, then reared up and smashed the top of my head into his chin. His teeth crunched. It felt like a hammer had struck my skull.
    Another round fired on the other side of the door.
    Scud pulled at my jacket and closed me in a headlock from behind. Then, he wrapped a leg around my shin and pushed forward until we both fell to the floor, belly down. The impact forced the air from my lungs. I tried to twist away, and freed my upper body, but he stopped me with another violent jerk on my hair. Then he grabbed my shoulder with fingers that felt like talons and pushed me onto my back, where he pinned me under his weight again.
    He kneeled over me and pressed both of his hands into my throat. I thrashed and kicked until my eyes and neck throbbed with pressure.
    I dug my nails into his wrists and pried. I couldn’t breathe. If only I could reach the gun. A block of wood. Anything.
    I had an idea, or at least what would have to pass for one.
    Letting go of Scud’s wrists was hard to do. As soon as I released, his clutch tightened and I felt faint.
    I reached for the seat of my jeans and fumbled for the opening to my back pocket. Snaking my fingers into the fold, I dug until I felt the coil I was looking for, then hooked my finger around it and pulled it to my belly. Above me, Scud’s weight shifted as he tried to see what I was doing.
    I had Vince’s broken high E, the thinnest steel string on a guitar, and I counted on it to deliver a sting. I wound it around my fingers in the narrow space between our bodies. Then I raised it to his wrist and slashed upward and sideways with all the strength I had left.
    “Damn it!” He winced enough for me to steal a gulp of air. It was enough.
    I adjusted my grip on the string and tried again. This time I thrust my chest and shoulders upward when I felt resistance on the string.
    He reeled off me, squeezing his wrist. I drove my foot into his bad knee, smashing with all the strength I had. It buckled, and I scrambled, crawling for the gun a yard away.
    I reached for it. Scud gripped my ankle and pulled my leg backward with a determined jerk.
    My chest hit the floor as I closed a hand over the pistol’s long barrel. I pulled it with me as Scud dragged me backward. Something seared into my calf, and I yelled out from the pain. I collapsed on my side, and glanced toward the door. Surely someone had heard. I wondered if that someone would be on my side or Scud’s. He lunged toward me again. I rolled to my back and aimed for his chest.
    When I squeezed the trigger, a muffled
ffft
sounded. Scud’s shoulder flinched backward and spun him to the floor. He tried to get up. I shot him again.
    He collapsed on the slab, motionless.
    I scooted to the flashlight, picked it up, and swung the beam to