Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

She didn’t need that. She wants to tell him so. Maybe her silence does.

—

THE PLUS-SIZED REALTOR WEARSa matronly wool outfit again despite the fact that the day doesn’t demand it. A warm front has moved in; it’s bearable outside and in. One look at the woman’s clammy complexion and darting eyes puts Grace on alert and wishing she could send Dulwich a warning without invoking the safe word.

There are too many possibilities: from the benign to the overt. Grace is out on the ice and hears it cracking.

“Impressive,” Grace says, after the usual pleasantries.

The cellar space is large, supported by steel posts. The glow is from tube lighting; there’s no natural light. Grace walks the perimeter of the room while the realtor babbles, exactly as Dulwich anticipated. Grace is looking for the best defensive positions. No natural light means no windows; no escape routes beyond the two doors, one on either end. She’s trapped, and judging from the realtor’s anxiety, it’s to be more than a photo or eavesdropping session.

“Only the two doors,” she says, for Dulwich’s ears.

“I understood you were looking for privacy.”

“Absolutely. And where does this second door lead?”

“You expressed interest in access away from busy streets. This door leads to a common parking area behind the building.”

“Excellent!”

“Yes, I thought it fit your needs quite nicely.”

“Proximity to a tram line is a potential problem,” Grace says. “But more to the point is the apparent absence of toilets, running water and heating. I am not running a sweatshop, you know? It’s to be an artists’ workspace. It must be habitable.”

On the off chance she’s being listened to by people other than Dulwich, she has thrown out this treat.

“The landlord is amenable to negotiate improvements providing—”

“He is aware it is to be month-to-month?”

“Well . . . I thought, perhaps . . . That is . . . allow me to show you around before we discuss too much detail.”

If she had any sense, she would mop her brow. It’s not the wool suit or hormones causing her to overheat.

“Very well.”

“The parking. Please.” She motions to the second door.

Grace holds her ground studying the exposed ceiling with its pipes and conduits. “You have to admit it’s chilly in here.”

“I find it quite pleasant,” the realtor answers.

“If I may say so,” Grace says, “you look warm. Are you not feeling well?”

She has given Dulwich as much as possible. She allows the realtor to open the door, revealing concrete steps leading up into darkness. The realtor nervously tries a light switch.

“Oh, I am terribly sorry!” the woman says. “The light appears to be out. I will lead the way. Please follow me.”

The woman could not be a worse actor. It doesn’t merit a high school performance.

“That is all right. I would like to see the exterior of the building anyway. I will meet you around back.”

Grace moves with deceptive speed toward the original entrance. It’s impossible to predict Dulwich’s reaction to her having spoken the safe word. He might be about to come through that same door, or he may have pulled the car into the back lot. As she’s five strides from the door, she hears them coming for her. Two or three of them, she thinks, not looking back. Stealthy, and well trained, already fanning out to surround her. Two, she decides. She recognizes this as her “be careful what you wish for” moment: her chance to earn herself a field promotion, to be considered more Knox’s equal, but it’s fraught with risk. She didn’t wish this upon herself, but doesn’t shy from the knock of opportunity.

The two have closed in on her quickly, both approaching from her blind spots behind. If she turns to see one, she invites assault from the other. They are anticipating her going for the door. The idea is to use their strength and advantage as weakness and vulnerability. Never moving her head, she bounds three strides straight back, splitting them and forcing them to turn.

Her target is the nerve running from the knee, up the thigh and into the lower back. She uses her hips, not her leg muscles, to thrust her upraised knee into the sweet spot on one attacker’s thigh. Cupping her left hand, she smacks his right ear, disorienting him, then drives the outside of her left elbow into his jaw. His right leg won’t move; he’s semi-conscious and immobilized, though still standing.

Her right hand goes out like a two-fingered claw. She misses his collarbone, connecting instead with the powerful chest of the assailant to the right.

He’s fast. Bats her arm away while simultaneously digging his fingers into the flesh of her forearm. She screams involuntarily and drops to her knees, succumbing to the pain.

Grace head-butts his kneecap, cups her right hand and swats his groin.

He curses, knees her in the face, and the lights go out.

The Indonesian in the parking lot jumps back as Knox, aware he’s late to the party, hollers in Dutch for him to get out of the way. Up until that moment, the man had been changing a tire on his Nissan. But Knox scares him back, hip-checks the Nissan and knocks it off its jack. Knox grabs the jack like it’s a drumstick and marches for the unmarked, black metal door.

He’s through the door. Shoves some librarian in a wool suit so hard she flies to the concrete floor a good distance from where she started. She won’t be getting up soon.

Grace is over a goon’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The other one is on his knees doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis seeing stars.

“Stop! Or I kill her.”

Knox stops.

“Seriously?” Knox returns in Dutch. “I’m supposed to care? Who the hell is she?” He looks between the two men. “I didn’t come for her, asshole. I came for you.”

The man dumps Grace off his shoulder while reaching for his back and a concealed weapon. Grace hits hard, head first, which results in Knox going all primal. He uses his core to launch the car jack javelin-style, a two-foot spear of Japan’s best steel. It flies on a frozen rope and strikes with so much force that Knox hears a crack and a pop. That would be the ribs and the lung . The handgun discharges.

Grace’s body elevates off the floor two inches like someone lit her up with 220 volts.

The jack clatters to the floor. It has torn a hole in the guy’s chest.

His partner tries to stand, but tilts to his right on a numb leg and falls over. Starts crawling toward the back door while going for his own handgun. Knox has the punctured guy’s gun. He shoots the crawler twice—two taps, chest and head.

Knox pistol-whips the coughing mess, dropping him. Then kneels next to Grace, his chest tighter than the fallen man’s. Feels for a pulse. Strong. Her face is a bloody mess, but wiping it off, it’s nothing more than a broken nose. He feels down her chest and abdomen for an entrance wound.

“Pervert,” she gags.

He hears himself exhale.

“Left leg,” she says, her attempt at a smile wiped away before it materializes.

“Another couple inches, you woulda been a nun,” Knox says.

The wound is a through-and-through on the inner thigh of her left leg, four inches below her crotch. The bullet is flat on the concrete in an island of flesh and tissue. Not much blood: it missed the femoral artery, which is something of a miracle given how little there is of Grace. He tears open her pants. She tries for modesty, but he slaps her hand away.

“Easy,” he says.

The exit wound isn’t pretty. The size of a quarter, it’s taken a plug out of her.

Dulwich comes through the street-side door, prepared to finish what Knox started. He has the entire picture with one look.