Bronx Requiem(77)

While holding the shim, he used the side of his right thumb to feel for the opening into the cuff housing. Experience guided his movements. He carefully, blindly probed for the opening.

The cuffs were positioned so the keyhole faced out, which meant Beck had to twist his torso to position the shim at the correct angle. It caused more pain, but he ignored it. He kept his eyes closed so he wouldn’t be distracted. He didn’t worry about Remsen and the others. He put all his attention into visualizing the tiny opening and the tip of his shim edging toward it. Probing. Gently trying to slide the tip of the shim into the impossibly small space.

He couldn’t find it. The tension built to a point where Beck stopped breathing.

He was trying too hard. Pushing too hard. He stopped everything. Relaxed his arms, shoulders, neck. He looked up. Inhaled, exhaled. And then began all over again, slowly, patiently.

He tried to forget they would be coming for him any second. Focus everything on the shim. Where the f*ck was it hitting? He thought he felt the tip catch the edge of the opening, but it wasn’t moving in.

Beck changed the angle. Bent his left elbow, raised the hand behind his back. Twisted around more. Causing more pain. Tried again. And again. He took a breath, held it.

Go slow. Try three times in row. It’s got to be there.

One, two … and then, without warning, lower than where he thought the opening was, the shim stopped. Was it in the opening? He couldn’t tell.

He rolled his forefinger onto the rectangular top of the shim and pushed. Gently so he wouldn’t bend the wafer-thin piece of metal. A little more. It seemed to move into the slot. Relax. Don’t screw it up.

Now came the last part. He positioned his right thumb on the top of the cuff; his last three fingers against the bottom. Holding the shim in place with the side of his forefinger, he was about to squeeze the cuffs, when suddenly, without warning, the car door opened.

He fell out of the SUV and slammed onto the ground, all his weight falling on his damaged shoulder, jarring his bruised ribs. His feet were still in the GMC. A hand grabbed the collar of his denim jacket.

It was the big one, Austen, sent to get him.

He pulled Beck out of the car, painfully raking Beck’s ankles over the door jamb, turned him onto his back, and dragged him out into the clearing, his cuffed hands underneath him, like Beck was a sack of garbage.

Beck twisted sideways so the cuffs wouldn’t grind into the dirt and grass, ripping the shim out. But it was too late, too late. He’d been slammed onto the ground, dragged across the dirt, everything was lost.

The rage that enveloped Beck was so utterly without bounds nothing mattered now. Not the pain. Not the handcuffs. Not even dying. His entire being focused on the stupid, heartless bully dragging him through the dirt, his back turned to him in disdain.

James Beck was not going to be dragged to his death.

He violently twisted around so he faced the ground, pulled his knees under him, and with all his strength, wrenched his upper body backward, stopping his forward movement just long enough to get his right foot under him.

Austen stopped to look behind him. Beck pulled his other foot under him and exploded forward. His head and shoulder hit full force into the back of Austen’s legs, which crumpled under the impact. He let go of Beck and tried to get his arms in front of him to break his fall, but he landed hard, face first. Beck instantly scrambled up onto the big man’s back. Austen rolled over and shoved Beck off him.

Like a cat, Beck twisted onto his knees. Austen, still on his back, tried to sit up. Beck reared back and snapped his forehead into Austen’s face. Beck heard as much as he felt the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage shattering.

Austen fell back flat on the ground. Beck scuttled forward on his knees, reared back and using the only body part he could hit with, slammed his forehead into the Austen’s face again, and again, and again. Beck didn’t care if he split his own head open. He didn’t care if he knocked himself out. All he wanted to do was to hit and hit and hit.

The big man tried to block Beck’s head, but he was no match for Beck’s strength and rage. Blood covered Austen’s face. He couldn’t see. Beck hit him again, and broke Austen’s right eye socket, and when he turned away, Beck’s slammed his forehead down and fractured Austen’s jaw, cracking two of his rear molars as they sheared against each other.

Finally, out of total desperation, the brute managed to blindly block Beck’s head and knock him off his knees so he couldn’t hit him again. But Beck would not be stopped. He quickly got to his feet, struggling to get his balance with his hands cuffed behind him. Beck heard shouts. He sensed the others running toward him.

Austen, semiconscious, tried to push himself upright with his left hand, but Beck kicked the arm out from under him, and when Austen fell back, Beck stomped his elbow, fracturing the humerus with a dull crack, tearing cartilage and ligaments, fracturing the ulna out of the socket. Austen screamed, his huge arm useless.

Beck heard shouts and footsteps pounding, closing in.

The big man, still on his back, roared out in pain and frustration.

Beck aimed carefully, pivoted, and stomped his left foot into Austen’s exposed throat, crushing the larynx nearly flat, putting all his two hundred pounds on the man’s throat, pressing his weight against the violent flailing of a dying man as something smashed into the side of his head, sending him into oblivion.