Without Remorse, page 19
It felt like being caught in an avalanche or crushed by a tsunami. The air burst from her lungs immediately. Her insides clenched—her gut twisting in that sick-to-the-stomach feeling from the sheer size of the killer.
He was trying to smother her with sheer weight. Dakota just needed an inch of space. Some room to move. Ju-jitsu had been one of her strongest weapons—mobile, acrobatic motions on the ground. The big man couldn't be punched. But everyone had to breathe.
Herself included. She couldn't move. Couldn't shout. Couldn't do anything. She just needed an inch. Just a little room to move. Just...
Black spots across her eyes. Head pounding. No air. Lungs aching. Kidneys, stomach, liver all protesting, mashed against each other. Everything in protest, ache and pain.
But this wasn't a cage fight. She didn't have to fight fair. So she didn't.
She brought her knee up as hard as she could. But there was just no room to gain momentum. So instead of slamming her knee between his legs, she barely grazed him.
So instead, she bit his nipple as hard as she could.
It was the only thing she had left. Yuck. That's what he'd said when he'd seen the blood on her forehead. She remembered the pristine condition of the murder victims' bodies. He'd hated bloodying them or causing damage to their skin. All she could think—hope—in that moment was that he had a similar aversion to piercing his own person.
She chomped down on his chest, biting as hard as she could, covered by an avalanche of meat and muscle and bone.
Her teeth sank into skin. She tasted blood.
And the man above her howled in pain. He jerked back, trying to tug away, but this only caused ripping. He screamed and reached down, wrapping his fingers around her throat. One squeeze, and she felt nearly certain he'd crush her larynx—not that she knew what a larynx was. Marcus would, undoubtedly.
But all she'd needed was an inch of space. Some ability to just move. And the moment he jerked back in pain, she seized her opportunity.
Using her left hand, she pushed her body along the ground, shifting enough to jut one leg out. With a hand, she grabbed a finger, twisting and bending it. Something cracked. He screamed again. With her loose leg, she hooked around his back, pulling him into her guard. Then, twisting the broken, mangled finger, blood trickling from his chest against hers, she pulled him to the right.
He screamed in pain.
Big as he was, fingers cracked easy. The motion of twisting him gave her the ability to now hook her arm on his left side. A foot and an arm. That's all she needed.
He was still trying to strangle her.
But by taking it to the ground, he'd had his best advantage—size. But his vanity, his fear of pain had cost him. He was bigger, but she'd trained her whole life. He clearly didn't have a clue how to grapple.
She reversed the pin, now using her hooked arm and leg to pull herself completely out from under him. He tried to squash her again, realizing he was losing his advantage. But it happened too fast. Now she was on top. She didn't hesitate, slipping her other foot around his right side now so she was practically piggy-back riding. He was pushing off the ground, though. The big ones always tried the same thing. They thought they could slam someone to the ground hard enough to dislodge them.
She only had seconds.
Her arm looped around his throat. Her other arm locked it in. She squeezed the rear-naked choke as tightly as she could. Her head pounding, her body aching. She twisted and squeezed as if she were wrangling some rodeo bull, putting her whole force and body behind it.
The man was cursing and spluttering and stumbling.
Behind them another metal suit. Dakota's eyes widened. She was squeezing his throat, but he was trying to slam her against the wall. His size would crush her, even with the choke in place. Not enough time.
So at the last minute she did the only thing she could think of. As he surged backwards, propelling himself hard into the wall, she dropped her grip instantly. Legs off, hands off. She fell like a stone and hit the ground.
A silly maneuver, and one that never would've worked in a cage.
But the big man wasn't reacting like a seasoned veteran. He was panicking. She doubted anyone had ever threatened him physically before. She wasn't out of the woods yet, though.
She hit the floor, tucking into a ball. Pain lanced up her knees and hands where she struck. A big foot caught her ribs as the killer stumbled back.
And now he tripped exactly over where she'd fallen.
The momentum from his lunging shove followed by his stumble sent him careening back into his own sculpture. His head struck metal. The metallic construction collapsed with him in a loud thud.
The big man groaned once. He held up a hand, staring dazedly at where blood now trickled along his fingers. “Yuck...” he whispered. His eyes fluttered.
He went still.
But Dakota didn't have time to celebrate. “Help!” a voice gasped. “Please—please—he—he...” The voice was struggling for words, struggling, by the sound of things, to even breathe.
Dakota whirled and spotted where part of one of the swinging angels had collapsed. Right on top of the woman beneath the metal wicket. Her face was pale, her eyes open and alert now. But she was gasping for air, the metallic, winged creation lodged against her chest, suppressing her lungs.
Dakota cursed, sprinting over. She ripped at the angel, groaning as she tried to lift it. “Help me,” she gasped out. “Count of three. Ready? One... two...” She groaned and the woman beneath the metal piece let out a gasp as she tried to shove as best as she could.
It wasn't much, but together, the two of them were able to push the winged thing a foot to the right. It came crashing down to the floor a second later, but this time—mercifully--not on top of the victim.
Dakota gasped, dropping to the woman's side. “Are you oka—” she began.
But then she heard a loud thump. And something struck her across the back of the head hard! Dakota hit the ground, trying to catch herself. But her arm wasn't moving well. Her thoughts were sluggish. The black spots across her vision were now white.
She blinked, trying to see. She caught glimpses of a massive shape stooped over her. Speckles of blood tapped against her cheeks, falling from the giant form. She glimpsed the killer leering down at her. A look of rage and grim satisfaction competing across his visage. He held her in place and then, with his bare hands, bent a piece of rebar over her to form another wicket, trapping her arms at her side, trapping her against the ground.
He growled at her. “You'll do,” he said in a whisper. He shook his head, more blood drops flying. Dakota kicked and cursed, but it was far more difficult to adopt half guard against a metal beam.
She struggled, but the metal wouldn't budge. She tried to slip through it, but the man put his foot on her throat. He reached for his blowtorch, heaving a massive sigh. He whispered, “This will only hurt a little.”
The blue flame leapt from the end of the tool, sparking above her. He was grinning now, still bleeding, his eyes truly mad.
Then, he began to lower the flame towards her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Dakota felt heat against her cheek, as she desperately tried to dislodge her arms from the metal bar the man had bent so easily. But for her it was futile. Her skin warmed beneath the blowtorch. The man above her chuckled in that childish, high-pitched voice of his.
Despair settled on Dakota like a cloak.
And that's when Agent Marcus Clement made his entry. All three hundred pounds of muscle and ill-intent. Marcus slammed into the giant killer from behind, bringing the two of them crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Marcus shouted, “Dakota! Are you ok—”
But he didn't have time to complete his wellness check on account of the fingers groping at his throat. The two men rolled one way, then the other, knocking over sculptures and art pieces. Marcus hit one of the ellipticals, toppling it. He grabbed a fifty-pound metal plate from the barbell, hefting it like it was little more than a sheet of paper.
Briefly, eyes wide, skin still buzzing, Dakota just stared in awe and amazement. The two enormous men slugged it out. Punching, then rolling, grappling then punching again. There was no technique, no finesse to the motions. Just sheer rage and brawn.
The two of them were now wrestling over a hundred-pound dumbbell weight, both trying to use it to cudgel the other.
Marcus was breathing heavily already. The big agent was an excellent partner in the field, but he didn't have nearly the stamina as the killer. Dakota struggled desperately, cursing and kicking. Finally, with a groan, she managed to slip through the hoop of bent metal, shimmying like a snake.
She pushed to her feet, struggling desperately in Agent Clement's direction. “Marcus!” she shouted in warning.
Clement ducked just in time to avoid being clobbered by another dumbbell. The weight flew through the air, smashed through a blacked-out window and just kept going. A second later there was a loud crunch followed by a car alarm.
She winced, wondering if Father Duncan's loaner had just gone for a second round. She wasn't sure how she was going to explain all the damage.
Now, though, her focus was diverted. Marcus was truly struggling now. He'd come in full force, but he was now panting, sweating, still going at it full force but losing pace.
The killer seemed to sense the opening. He was moving faster, forcing the tempo. Both men were bleeding. Both bruised, both with ripped shirts. Marcus threw a haymaker but missed completely now—a sloppy blow.
The killer crowed in delight and punched Marcus in the stomach.
Dakota was on her feet, stumbling towards them, trying to catch her bearings. She was sleep-deprived, bruised, half-crushed, and exhausted. She reached one of the weight racks. She tried to lift the fifty-pound weight, but it was too heavy to wield.
She cursed as Marcus let out a gasp, dropped to the ground by another blow. She grabbed a much smaller, twenty-pound weight and then rushed the killer from behind.
“I purge the small things,” he was shouting in Marcus's face. Spittle and blood flecked Clement's cheeks as he tried to push back to his feet. “I purge them—I re-create them. You stare at greatness!” He raised his bludgeoning weapon, preparing to cave Marcus's head in.
Dakota reached him a second before he could move. “No!” she shouted. More out of disagreement than horror. The twenty-pound weight smacked the man across the back of the head, hard.
He wobbled, blinked once, and then collapsed like a sack of bricks between Marcus and Dakota, absolutely motionless.
The two of them stood quiet, both breathing heavily, both staring at the fallen monster.
“Shit,” Dakota said.
“Holy shit,” Marcus replied. He winced, rubbing at a split lip and pulling fingers away stained with blood.
Dakota pointed at her partner. “Nice timing.”
He glanced at the dumbbell in Dakota's two hands, then at the fallen Goliath. “You too. Demiurge. Do you know what that means?”
“No, but I know what shit means. You said it. I heard you. You swore.”
“Did not.”
Dakota snorted, but was already turning, hastening back towards the fallen victim who was sitting upright, crying, her eyes wide. Clearly, she was in shock.
“Hang on,” Dakota said hurriedly. “It's going to be okay,” she said. “You're going to be okay.”
The woman blinked, staring at Dakota, tears streaming down her face. Marcus was busy checking on the killer, making sure he was down for the count. Dakota heard the sound of cuffs then a second curse word from the normally self-censoring big man.
“Don't think these are going to fit!” he shouted.
Dakota pulled her own from her hip, tossing them without looking across the room. “Try two!”
She was on a knee again, concern in her eyes as she tended to the woman. A bit of a role reversal, she thought to herself. Normally, Marcus was concerned with the victims. Dakota with the killers.
Or maybe that was just what she liked to tell herself. In as soothing a tone as she could muster, she whispered, “You're going to be okay. It's alright. You're fine. He's done. He's gone.”
“Benjamin,” she was saying, her voice shaking. “I—I know him from group.”
Dakota patted the woman on the arm. “Help is on the way.”
She glanced up towards the smashed window. She'd already spotted the flashing red and blue lights. Backup was drawing nearer. “Help is on the way,” she repeated, breathlessly, collapsing into a sitting position next to the survivor. “You're going to be fine,” she whispered. “Just fine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Dakota yawned, sitting on the edge of her hotel bed and scratching at the bandage wrapped around her forehead. The loop of gauze had seemed like overkill at the time, but Dakota wasn't complaining.
A full night of sleep did wonders for one's mood.
Agent Clement stood in the doorway to the hotel room, watching her from beneath hooded eyes. This was partially because he kept wincing every time he stepped on his left ankle.
She shifted, zipping her carry-on where she'd stowed the last of her things.
“You good to go?” Marcus asked, wincing again and touching fingers to his split lip. He'd refused stitches for it, citing how he'd never needed them for a busted mouth before.
But Dakota suspected he was simply scared of needles. The two of them were taking their time to leave for the airport and get on a plane back to Quantico. There was something nice about not having to rush.
Dakota inhaled the odor of coffee from the Styrofoam cup in Marcus's hand.
“Where'd you get that?” she said, frowning at the cup.
He pointed towards the floor. “First level.”
She whistled. “You were up early.”
“Not all of us need as much beauty sleep,” he said primly.
She whistled again out of spite. “Funny. But bet you can't do that.” A third whistle.
He tried but just winced the moment he pursed his cut lip. He muttered darkly, but his eyes held good humor. As Dakota pushed off the edge of the bed, hefting her carry-on item and bidding farewell to the last known location of a full night's rest, Marcus's expression sobered.
“Did you hear?” he said.
“Huh?”
“She's going to make a full recovery. They even released her from the hospital this morning. She's shaken, but fine.”
“Physically fine,” Dakota murmured. Still, she smiled at the news.
Marcus beamed back. “There it is—I miss seeing it sometimes.”
She stopped smiling.
He rolled his eyes but ended the motion with a shoulder shrug. “Not bad, you know. First case back and all.”
“This is my second case back.”
“Not reinstated it isn't. It's going to look good to the boss. I already put in a good word. Told her how you handled Zeus all on your own.”
“Zeus? I was thinking more like Goliath.”
Marcus shrugged. “I think that makes you a Bible character. Super holy.” He widened his eyes and put on a high-pitched voice. “Purge them all!” He tried to chuckle but just ended up wincing in pain again.
Dakota rolled her eyes, hefting her bag. “Whatever, Clement. Say—hang on... I'm getting a call. I'll be down in a sec.”
Marcus flashed a thumbs up, turning on his heel and moving quickly. “Don't keep 'em waiting. Chicago taxis are notorious.”
She waved him away with a forced smile. Once he'd gone, she reached out, shutting the hotel door before answering. She tried to smile to force some color into her voice.
“Hey Coach,” she said.
Coach Little's strong Irish brogue returned with, “I missed your call, Tastee... Shoulda called again, I didn't see. An old man could get downright sensitive about neglect. You should know better.”
She forced a chuckle. Inwardly, though, she thought about the call she'd never completed. About everything she'd wanted to say. But Coach Little was in another state. He had his own concerns to worry about. Still, it was nice of him to call.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I'll try to keep in touch. Appreciate the call though.”
He snorted. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to chase me off the line like somehow you're not worth my time.”
She blinked. “I—what?”
“You,” he said, “are worth my time. You used to call regular. I miss those days. How was the case? How are things? Dammit—gotta get me to beg or what? Kinda selfish Tastee.”
She blinked in surprise. Stunned, she felt a lump in her throat. She swallowed, smiling for real now. Her chest prickled with something akin to warmth. “I—oh. Well, good actually. Solved it.”
“Ha! Knew you had it in ya!”
“Actually got to use a move you taught me at the gym. You would've liked the bout.”
He let out a cackle and she heard what sounded like his walking stick thumping the ground. “Good shit, Steele. Not that it would've mattered.”
“What wouldn't have?”
“If you solved the case or not.” He grunted. “Never mattered if you won a bout or lost neither.”
She blinked, suddenly awash with memories of Little's gym back in Rapid City. Of the fights she'd had, the training. She felt another lump in her throat and swallowed quickly. “I—yeah I always appreciated that about you,” she said. “You really did root for us. All of us. Even when we lost.”
“Course I did. I was training fighters. Not prize horses. Part of a complete fighter is losing well.” He coughed briefly and she heard him lower the phone and shout at someone in the distance. “...hands up!” he was saying. “No—don't drop the left. He's aiming right for—yeah, there you go! Now do it again!” His voice returned full volume. “Sorry about that. What was I saying?”
“Something about losing.”
He snorted. “Take a good look at some of these new whelps in here, Tastee, and you'd realize some of them are experts on that subject.”
