Andrew Klavan - The last thing I remember

I racked my brain to think of a plan. Obviously, the easiest way to avoid the police would be to work my way to the other side of the bridge through the forest, skirting the canyon. But was there enough time for that? I figured I had no choice but to find out.

But before I could, the killing started.

I was just about to move back into the trees when the man in the blue suit-the Secret Service agent standing by the unmarked car in the middle of the bridge-lifted his hand to his ear. I could tell he was listening to something-a message of some kind coming in over his earpiece. He stood like that a second or two, then he came away from the side of the bridge and stepped out in the middle. He lifted his hand to his mouth. I guessed he was talking into a microphone.

The state troopers at either end of the bridge reacted. They came away from their cars too. They moved to the center of the road, the same as the agent. They were looking at him. He lifted his hand and waved them toward him, first one then the other.

The state troopers hesitated a second. This wasn’t what they were expecting. Then they started to come forward, approaching the agent from either side.

A movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned and saw the first car of the secretary’s three-car motorcade appear on the road in a gap between the hills. It didn’t look to be that far away. I figured it would reach the bridge in about five minutes, maybe less. That settled it. There was definitely no time for me to make my way through the woods to the other end of the bridge before the cars arrived. I would have to go straight down and warn the police already stationed there. I would just have to hope they believed me and stopped the motorcade. There was no other choice. I was out of time.

I was about to head to the end of the bridge and crawl down onto the pavement where one of the state cruisers was parked. I took one last look and saw the two state troopers now approaching the agent from either end. The agent waited until they were about ten feet away.

Then he went into his jacket and pulled out a gun.

My lips parted. I understood at once. The man in the blue suit: it was Orton.

I was about to shout out a warning. But I had no chance-and I was too far away; they wouldn’t have heard me anyway. All I could do was stare as the man in the blue suit pointed his pistol at the state trooper on his far side and fired. There wasn’t much noise, only a muffled report. But I saw the hole open in the trooper’s chest. He started to fall but before he did, the man in the blue suit turned around and fired again, hitting the second trooper just where he’d hit the first.

The first trooper had fallen to his knees. Now he toppled over onto the surface of the road. The second trooper was staggering backward. Then his legs folded under him and he went down.

As I lay there, gasping, staring, the man in the blue suit-Orton-calmly slipped his pistol back inside his coat. He walked to the unmarked car parked by the side of the bridge. He pointed his key at the car and pressed a button. I heard an electronic chirp. Then the trunk slowly came open.

From my position on the rocks, so far from the center of the bridge, I didn’t have a clear view of the trunk’s contents. I didn’t need one. I could see there was some sort of mechanism in there, and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was.

The car was a bomb. Orton was going to wait for the secretary’s motorcade, then blow up the bridge and send him and everyone with him crashing to their deaths in the canyon below.

Almost as the thought came to me, I was off the rock, racing to the edge of the bridge. I slid down the last part of the incline and tumbled onto the road. Then I was on my feet, running over the bridge as fast as I could.

There was no more time to think or plan or do the smartest thing or the safest. I had to get to Orton. That was all I knew. I had to reach him-I had to stop him- before he destroyed the bridge and everyone on it.

The Battle for the Bridge It wasn’t far-but it was the longest run of my life.

Orton was at the center of the bridge. He had his back to me. He was leaning over the trunk of his car, working on the mechanism inside-activating the bomb, I guessed. I flew toward him, pumping as hard as I could, knowing that any second he might hear me, might turn and see me and gun me down as he had the troopers.

One of the dead troopers lay between us in a spreading pool of blood. It was a horrible sight. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I had to push past it. I had to get to Orton.

I ran and ran. It seemed to take forever. Slowly, slowly, I got closer, closer.

I was only a few steps away when he heard me coming.

He turned to look over his shoulder and spotted me. His mouth dropped open, and his smooth, long features showed his surprise. I didn’t slow down. I kept charging at him, full speed. He recovered himself quickly. He jammed his hand into his jacket. He started to draw his pistol again. I could see there wasn’t going to be time to reach him before he leveled it at me.

He swung around. He pointed the gun at my chest.

Then I was on him.

I spun to the side. He fired. The bullet went past me. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, pulling it past my body, pulling him toward me. I hit him with my right fist, sticking the thumb out so it went into his eye.

The blow stunned him. I twisted his gun hand. I grabbed the gun and pulled it free. I stepped away and turned the gun on him.

He kicked it out of my hand.

It was a great kick. A black-belt kick. The kind you usually only see at tournaments, at the highest level. It caught my wrist full force and sent my arm flying upward, the gun spinning out of my hand and into the air.

I never got to see where it fell.

Orton let the force of the kick bring him close to me, spinning to bring a slashing hand around at my throat.

I managed to duck. The hand chopped into the side of my head. It felt like a hammer blow and knocked me to the ground.

I rolled to get away from him. Orton, seeing me on the ground, charged after me. That was a mistake. I looped one foot behind his ankle and kicked out with the other, catching him just below the knee. It toppled him over to the pavement. I leapt on top of him.

The next moment, we were locked together on the bridge, ripping at each other’s faces, looking for an opening, each of us trying to drive a knee into the other’s groin or ribs. We rolled over each other once and then again, and then I was thrown free and smacked into the bridge’s railing, hard. The impact stunned me. Orton seized his chance. He drew up on his knees, drew back his fist, ready to knock me out.

I lashed out with my leg and kicked him in the chest.

He toppled over backward and rolled. I rolled and got to my feet. He was up first and rushed at me.

I was pinned against the bridge’s railing. I could feel the top of it where it hit me in the small of the back. Orton was coming in low and fast. I think he wanted to pick me up and lift me over the rail, hurl me down to my death in the canyon. The whole thing happened in a second. He was there. I was spinning aside. His arms were out, reaching for me. I dodged his grip and caught hold of his shirt and his shoulder.

I swung around and hurled him at the railing full force. He hit-and flipped over it.

It happened so fast there was no time to stop it. One moment Orton was at the bridge rail, the next he was spilling across the top. The sight of him tumbling over toward certain death made my heart clutch. Without thinking, I lunged after him, trying to stop his fall.

I touched something. I grabbed it. His arm. His wrist. I had him. His weight pulled me hard against the railing, nearly pulled me over with him. I braced myself against the steel. Held my grip on his wrist. I looked over the railing, looked down.