Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

His neck was slick with blood, making it harder for Evan to maintain the rear naked choke. Keller tried to twist his gun hand free, but Evan kept his hold, pulling the Browning inward and forcing it up, up, the muzzle nearing Keller’s face. Evan’s biceps strained, his forearm burning. The Hi-Power trembled in their shared grasp. Keller was stronger, his arm so much meatier than Evan’s; if this went on much longer, Evan would lose the battle.

Halfway across the lot, the Tesla fishtailed into sight around the kiosk, headlights blazing, and rocketed toward them.

With his last ounce of strength, Evan ripped the pistol inward one final inch, the muzzle coming parallel to Keller’s temple. His forefinger overrode Keller’s, forcing him to pull the trigger.

A dry click.

Evan had lost track of the rounds.

Inexcusable.

Keller’s hoarse gagging sounded like a laugh. He stomped Evan’s foot, twisting away. Evan released the pistol and jammed his thumb into the mandibular angle under Keller’s ear behind the lower jawbone, the tender intersection of three major nerves.

The Tesla was closing, city lights cascading across its windshield.

Keller lurched away from the pressure point, screeching.

The Tesla accelerated. Close enough now that Evan could make out the team leader inside, readying his sidearm, aiming straight over the steering wheel so he could fire through the windshield.

The hiss of the electric motor crescendoed.

Keller bucked violently, setting his weight, Evan’s hold weakening.

The Tesla’s headlights bore down.

Digging his thumb even harder into the pressure point, Evan swung Keller in the opposite direction from what the big man would have expected.

Out into the open lane and directly into the path of the looming Tesla.

Keller shook loose from Evan’s hold. The high beams caught them both in the face, bleaching them white, freezing them as if against the wrath of an atomic bomb.

For an instant it was certain they’d both die.

Keller raised his functional arm in front of his face, bracing for the collision. But Evan knew something he did not.

That the Tesla Model S featured the finest automatic braking system on the market.

The brakes stutter-clamped to slow the vehicle, smoke shooting from the tire wells. The squeal was earsplitting, the reek of burned rubber shooting forward on a pressure wave of air, hitting them in the face.

The Tesla swiveled left and then right, finally centering as it came to a steaming halt no more than a foot in front of Evan and Keller.

Keller was stooped, his arm swaying from the wrecked shoulder, foam flecking his lips. He coughed out a single note of relief.

The team leader had been tossed forward into the wheel, his handgun thrown onto the dash. He pried himself back, met Evan’s eyes, reached for his pistol.

Evan took hold of Keller’s ruined limb, twisted it into an arm bar, dropped his full weight into the joint lock, and swung the man down and around, tripping him as they fell.

Their shared momentum accelerated Keller’s face as it slammed into the Tesla’s grille.

The air bag deployed, the gun inside the car giving a muffled pop.

Keller slid off the hood and slumped to the ground, his arm striking the asphalt with a moist slap.

A hissing sound issued from the air bag as it deflated, speckled with grit and white powder, a firework burst of crimson across the sturdy nylon. Evan stayed on his knees, panting as the air bag diminished further, revealing the team leader slumped back in the driver’s seat, mouth ajar as if he were sleeping. The air bag’s explosion had propelled the gun upward, causing him to shoot himself in the face.

The autobrakes had delivered him to Evan.

And the air bag had done the rest.

Evan’s ribs ached. His right side was doused in Keller’s blood. The close-range gunshot had reduced his hearing to a ringing whine, and cotton filled his head. Enough adrenaline had dumped into his bloodstream to make him light-headed.

He allowed himself the luxury of three full breaths. Then he pulled himself upright, his lower back aching.

No bystanders. No sirens. Not yet.

First step , he told himself. Secure your weapon .

He trudged over behind the Mustang, the blown-out heel of his boot lopsiding his gait. The metallic rasp of the exposed shank against the asphalt accompanied every other step. He picked up the ARES where he’d dropped it and slotted a fresh magazine in. Heading back to the kiosk, he staggered a bit but then regained his balance.

Next in the gear checklist was the RoamZone. Not surprisingly, it had cracked in the brawl, turning the screen into a mosaic. As he moved through the labyrinth of cars, he placed both his thumbs over the fault lines and applied pressure, the self-repairing polyether-thiourea knitting itself back together before he reached the clearing.

Diaz was right where Evan had left him, pinned to the wall by his hand, his weapons on the ground just out of reach. Fighting the pain in his impaled palm and quaking on his intact right leg, he strained to reach the MP5.

There was no way.

Evan approached, the steel shank click-click-clicking on the ground. As he neared, Diaz gave up, sagging back against the wall. He’d tugged the Polartec mask down around his neck, pained breaths huffing in the cold air. A bib of drool sheened his chin. The damage to his hip was severe, arterial blood snaking down his leg. It wouldn’t be long.

Diaz looked down, tried to stem the bleeding with his good hand.

“You’re a private military contractor,” Evan told him.

“… did good, too…” Diaz’s chest juddered as it rose. “… everyone thinks … bad … but we’re the ones … call in when they need … demine a field in Mosul … Kurmal…”

“That doesn’t interest me,” Evan said. “Who do you work for?”

Diaz licked his lips, his eyes halfway gone. “Every cleared mine a saved life or … Every one.… I’m not bad … not bad…”

“Who do you work for?” Evan asked again.

“We come back here.… What are we s’posed to do…?”

His head lolled, his hand slipping from the ragged wound on his hip, the life running out of him, pooling in his boot.

Evan stepped forward, gripped Diaz’s chin, lifted his face. “Who do you work for?”

The dark lashes parted sluggishly. “… don’t know … call him … the doctor … All I know.” He was crying now. “I’m not all bad … helped people, too … help me now … help me.…”

“You were willing to kill witnesses,” Evan told him. “Cops.”

Diaz’s large brown eyes held a depth of sorrow that seemed bottomless. “… not all bad.”

“Okay,” Evan said. “I understand.”

Diaz slumped forward, his good leg giving out, his body sagging from the impaled hand. An ignoble pose, even grotesque.

Evan stared down at the top of Diaz’s head. Then he ripped the KA-BAR free of his hand, Diaz’s body spilling to the ground. His lips were tensed in a crooked scowl, eyes glossed with a lifeless film. Evan reached down and closed his lids.

Then hustled across the lot, trying not to limp.

He reached the Ferrari and pried up the lid of the trunk. Andre roared something unintelligible, swinging and kicking wildly.

Evan stepped back, none of the blows landing. “You’re safe. We need to move.”

Andre came back into himself and nodded, his neck tensed, the hollow of his throat glistening with sweat. He offered a hand, and Evan clamped it and tugged him out.

They cut through the next aisle, passing the tall man’s body, his mouth gaping where the flashlight had been rammed through, front teeth chipped.

Andre’s voice came out strangled. “Were you … trying to kill him?”