Self-defense had taught her how to disarm a shooter, but she wasn’t a shooter herself. In a moment of impulse, she threw it out the open window.
Trevor lunged for her. She evaded his long reach just barely, ducked, and punched him in the crotch. As he howled and bent over, she pushed past him and ran out of the bedroom.
Down the stairs.
Out the front door.
To Mullins’ police car, and she grabbed the door handle. The door was locked, the engine running, all the bells and whistles lit up inside.
Police left their cars running because of all the devices – one of those things on the console gave his radio broadcast power. When on a call, an officer wore their radio.
She circled around to where the officer lay on his back, and she groped in the dark, yanked the radio from his belt, fumbled around with it.
Wasting time – she thought Trevor was right and police would already be on their way because he hadn’t reported in. But she found the button she thought was the transmitter anyway, and pressed it.
She tried to speak, found her vocal cords locked up again. “Hello,” she said at last. She gave her name and the address and said, “There’s a shooter – Trevor Garris – and there’s a victim, Lennox Palmer, and he’s alive. Send an ambulance.” She set the radio down. Time to get out of here. She considered getting the handgun out of Mullins’ holster, but she was just as unfamiliar with using a short firearm as she was with a rifle.
Just go now.
She flung her door open and stared – no keys in the ignition. Trevor had taken them.
Mullin’s radio crackled nearby but she didn’t hear the response – she was now focused on Trevor’s heavy footfalls coming down the stairs in the house.
He appeared in the front doorway, the hulking shape of him. The music drifted out the open front door.
Trevor had a knife in his hand.
He weighed over 200 pounds, easily. He was over six feet tall. He was strong. She’d taken him by surprise – twice – but now he would be ready.
Bobbi saw where the rifle lay in the gravel. She sprinted for it and Trevor got moving. She snatched it up as she ran, looking for somewhere to throw it he’d have a hard time retrieving it from. He was right behind her and chased her around the house. She was fast but he had longer strides and was closing in behind her. She threw the rifle into the woods as hard as she could, heard it knock against a tree and come to rest in the underbrush.
She changed course, headed for Anita’s garden, and hurdled the chicken-wire fence. She heard Trevor attempt to do the same and get caught up, fall over. He blurted a few curse words but she didn’t look back. She jumped the fence on the other side and fled into the darkness.
The hill. The kids played on a hill and she found their little playhouse just beyond. Now she dared to look back – didn’t see Trevor; the hill blocked her view. She opened the door to the playhouse and slipped inside.
She gripped herself around the legs. Buried her face, tried to slow her rapid breathing.
How much time was left until help arrived? She just needed to stay alive for another five minutes. Ten at the most.
She listened.
Heard him scratching around in the garden, still muttering curses. The chicken wire rattled. His legs swished through the high grass.
“Bobbi…”
She peered out one of the tiny windows. Saw him; just a shape. He was like a giant.
“Bobbi, you in there?”
Bad move, coming in here. She kicked open the door, jumped to her feet, and ran. She was fast, but he had those longer strides and caught her before she could crest the hill, grabbing a handful of the back of her shirt. She wrenched free and dropped to the ground, started to crawl back up the hill. He took a hold of her foot and dragged her. Her fingernails dug furrows of earth. Then he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her in the air while she kicked with her feet; kicked at nothing.
She felt the blade cut across her left shoulder, slice through her chest above her breast.
She screamed then threw her head back and connected – maybe with his chin – but he didn’t let go. She saw the flash of the knife as he twisted it in the air, coming in for another blow, this time to stab her. She writhed and thrashed and flipped her head back again, missing him entirely. She crossed her arms in front of her and the knife hit her forearm, glided along, peeling her skin back like an orange.
Panic.
Flashes of memories: sparring with her sensei, the snap of their gis as the loose fabric tautened with a quick punch.
Connor, Jolyon; the little boy wrapping his arms around her legs in a hug.
Harriet, sitting in her car – her last thoughts. Probably her family. Her desire to live.
But this was something she wasn’t able to overcome. Trevor was too big. Too strong. Training was different than real life. Training was—
More memories: fighting with her foster brothers. Brad, particularly aggressive, always clutching at her, reaching his arm around her—
Mike Nelson, touching her shoulder—
Bobbi grabbed Trevor’s wrist. She used her knuckles to dig into a pressure point and twisted. It was one of the first things she’d ever learned, when she was just a girl.
Trevor said something unintelligible as he expelled air in pain and surprise. He dropped the knife. She thought maybe he’d drop her, too, but he held on with his other arm, which slid up under her chin, started to cut off her windpipe.
No.
Gagging, unable to breathe, she jabbed with her elbows and this time connected, getting him in the ribs, the sternum. She didn’t stop until he let go, and she fell to her feet. Stayed up. Twisted around and struck with the heel of her palm, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click.
Trevor took a step back, off-balance on the hill, and she came at him. She landed a heel on his knee cap and he howled. She kicked him square in the balls and he doubled over. Grabbed his hair and tore out a handful.
He screamed like a child and scrabbled at her, tried to get her off him. He swung at her and missed. Swung at her again; she blocked it. Swung at her a third time; connected. Bobbi saw stars and dropped to the ground.
Her eyelids fluttered. She’d landed on her back. Tried to flip onto her feet. Something was wrong, though. She wasn’t able to get up. He had her in some kind of a hold, like a wrestler.
She was losing air. Losing blood. Her body felt crushed.
Lots of fights went to the ground. Karate classes were one thing, street-fighting was something else. But she was little, she was able to reach, get a hold of his arm, pull it back the wrong way.
She heard him exhale through gritted teeth – and then he let go.
For a moment, she didn’t know where he was. After their noisy struggle, the silence seemed to jump out of the ground. She could smell soap.
Then Trevor loomed over her. He had the knife again. He raised it up.
“Don’t…” she said.
There was a loud, sharp snap in the air, and Trevor fell away, a mist of his warm blood spraying against her skin, the last thing Bobbi felt.
* * *
Mike picked her up.
He carried Bobbi away from Trevor Garris, who was unmoving on the ground. He stumbled a little as he walked but didn’t drop her. Got her over beside his car and laid her gently down.
He stood, saw that his arms were slicked with her blood, then he knelt beside her and put his head against her chest.
Her heart was beating. He took her pulse. Weak, but there. He ripped off his shirt and used it as a compress – her forearm wasn’t cut deep, but she had a bad gash across her shoulder and another on her upper breast.
Mike heard the ambulance siren under the noise of the music pouring out of the house. Bobbi had radioed that Lennox was inside. But he stayed with her, keeping the pressure on her wound, talking to her, though he didn’t really think about what he was saying.