Page 120 of Every Last Breath

The short hallway was clear.

She crept down the corridor, past the Wizards’ silver emblem on the wall and framed pictures of players in action. Pivoting left, she swept into the brightly lit, empty locker room.

Wooden cubbies lined two walls. Plasma screens hung from another and a whiteboard on the fourth. Corners were clear. No doors on the hardwood cabinetry. Nowhere to hide.

Adrenaline mainlined in her veins. She prowled around the corner to the threshold of an adjoining room. The lights were off, but she made out stacks of towels and massage tables in the darkness.

All her senses were heightened and alert. She paused and listened, straining to pick up the slightest movement, her breath controlled. There was only the sound of her blood thundering in her ears.

She eased into the shadows. Spine to the doorjamb, she fumbled along the wall for a light switch. The room was large, too dark, too silent, with plenty of objects to hide behind.

Stomach acid surged into her chest. Her grip on the gun was steady, heart rapping hard against her rib cage as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. She found the switch and flipped it.

Fluorescent tubes flickered on and buzzed. Harsh white light bathed the room.

Novak charged her with a trash can. Slamming the hard plastic bin into her, he knocked the gun from her hands, sending her into a spin deeper into the therapy room.

Her 9mm clattered to the floor, steel skidding across the tile.

She gained her bearings and popped the retention release on the baton, flicking it with her wrist, expanding the full twenty-six inches.

Novak closed in. Blindingly fast. Boogeyman eyes raged behind glasses. He lobbed a foam roller at her head.

She ducked, sidestepping, and swung the baton, belting him with lightning strikes.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t seem to feel the popping bite of any of her strikes. Just kept storming forward with shocking force like a freakish Terminator. Teeth bared. Snarling.

With each startling advance, he pressed her backward. Herding her to a corner. Where he’d have her trapped. Pinned. Able to hurt her badly.

She raised her right knee high and thrust her foot out with all the power she could muster. Her well-aimed heel connected with his groin. It should’ve dropped him, but it didn’t. A swift follow-up kick to his gut propelled him back inches, giving her a narrow opening.

And she took it.

Desperate to put space between herself and Novak’s grasp, she scrambled away from him. She spotted her gun under the massage table and went for it.

Scalding pain tore into her scalp, and she was wrenched back on her heels as he snatched her ponytail. On reflex, she reached for her hair.

He knocked the baton from her fingers and threw her against the wall. Her head bounced off the sheetrock with a crack, knocking the comms piece out of her ear.

A brutal stab of agony mushroomed in her skull. She fought to keep her eyes open, not let her knees buckle. The tang of aluminum filled her mouth. She blocked and threw punches on instinct, her aim wild as her vision cleared.

Until a vicious blow sent her sprawling.

With horror movie speed, he caught her in a rear headlock, keeping her upright on her feet. His arm was an iron band around her throat.

The natural inclination was to lean back to lighten the pressure on the windpipe. If you did, you’d be defenseless with no balance and your attacker would have you.

She shrugged her shoulders, creating a pocket of space, and tucked her chin into the crook of his elbow, clutching the inside of his arm. She pitched forward from the waist, bending at the knees, and drove a heel into his instep to get his hold to loosen.

Growling in her ear, he jerked her side to side, trying to knock her off balance. Sounding like a deranged beast that wanted to tear the flesh from her limbs. She stepped her foot behind his, locking his leg, and popped her elbow back into his solar plexus. With the other hand, she twisted his wrist, spun out of his grasp, and, planting her free foot, torqued his arm to throw him to the ground.

The technique was precise, flawless, but he seized her jacket, yanking her down along with him. They smacked to the cold tile in a tangle, rolling, punching.

He outweighed her by a good forty pounds and was amped to a manic level. But she was strong and fast, had years of vigorous training, and she fought him with everything in her.

She jabbed at the stab wound she’d given him in the fight on the boat, trying to exploit his one apparent weakness.

Sweet Jesus! Why didn’t he wince? Why didn’t he show any signs of a physical deficit?