The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(84)

Once standing, I see George. He’s an arm’s length away, and he’s holding his shotgun. If he loaded a shell in it as I was getting up, I’m done for. But I have to assume he didn’t load the gun, because he swings it at me in a wide arc.

I have two choices: dodge or take the hit.

I go for the painful route. I move, allowing the butt of the gun to hit my right side, and plunge my handcuff-armed fist into George’s jaw just as pain erupts in my side. I’m only vaguely aware of the pain in my right hand, which I suspect is bleeding from the handcuffs. Since I don’t care to cut my palm any deeper, I throw the handcuffs at George’s head.

I miss, but on the bright side, it’s not because he dodged. He doesn’t look in any condition to counter my attacks. His eyes seem dim, and he appears ready to fall over. The shotgun slips out of his hand.

I try to calm my ragged breathing, but it’s hard. Something inside me acquired a piece of red-hot iron, and it’s poking me when I inhale.

Oxygen or no, I have to capitalize on George’s dazedness. I step closer and ready myself to punch him.

I’ll never know whether George was faking or if he regained his strength at the last second, but his wooziness doesn’t prevent him from doing a strange half-stomp, half-kick on my injured ankle.

I inhale sharply, provoking the red-hot pain in my side. Instantly, I forget about punching George and focus on not crumpling to the ground in a fetal position.

Emboldened, George raises his fists, boxing-style, and swings.

I realize something then: my martial arts training is more defensive than offensive. Seeing a fist flying at me makes my brain ignore the pain and follow the conditioning of my training.

I meet George’s fist with my elbow and throw a punch at his solar plexus.

George must do crunches daily, because my hand meets hard muscles.

Instead of doubling over in pain, the f*cker counters by grabbing my neck with both hands, proving once and for all that he has a fetish for choking people.

Due to my body’s already-low air supply, I weaken quickly and with a sense of déjà vu.

I see white and black lights in front of my eyes, and they remind me of our recent Assimilation battle. I remember how I motivated myself by replaying all the things George has done, and my weakness slowly gives way to an all-consuming anger.

The anger gives me a small burst of energy, but I know that if I don’t use it wisely, this is the last burst of energy I’ll ever get.

I note that my hands are up and bent at the elbows—a natural reaction to someone choking me from the front. The dumb thing to do would be to try and unclench his hands; his grip is powerful, and in the condition I’m in now, I lack the strength to stop him. So I use my modicum of energy to grab George’s wrists and pull his arms backwards, as though I’m trying to get him to choke someone behind me.

The gambit works, and his grip slips, his arms swooshing by my shoulders.

I accompany the maneuver with a Krav Maga—and Mira’s favorite—move: a kick to the groin.

George grunts but doesn’t fall over. I need him to fall because I’m about to. So I do something I would’ve done in a drunken bar brawl.

I head-butt him.

My forehead connects with the bridge of his nose. The sound of bone cracking reverberates, though it could’ve come from my skull just as easily as from his nose.

As I fall, I see George topple over as well. I hit the ground, and all my body wants to do is lose consciousness, but with a monumental effort of will, I hold on.

With my remaining strength, I pat the ground for the cuffs. The fingers of my right hand meet the soothing coldness of metal. I grab the cuffs, crawl over to George, and fasten them on my knocked-out opponent.

Then I reach into his pocket and remove a shotgun shell. I roll over to the shotgun, which was just out of reach, and load it.

To save my strength, I drag it across the ground and put the barrel parallel to George’s head. It’s a shotgun, so good aim isn’t critical.

I place my finger on the trigger.

George opens his eyes and whispers, “Please. No.”

He proceeds to cover his face with his hands as though that could stop a shotgun blast.

Slightly louder, he adds, “You can’t. We’re family.”

I must be in worse shape than I thought, because my finger refuses to pull the trigger. Or more accurately, something within me prevents me from pulling it. Some part of me tells me that I can’t kill him, that it wouldn’t be right.

I argue against whatever part of me is having these very untimely qualms.

Was it his plea? I wonder. No, I don’t really buy his ‘we’re family’ comment for a second.

Is it that he’s cuffed and at my mercy? That sounds more like it, but that would make my reluctance irrational. He was trying to kill me just a moment earlier. I could’ve killed him with a punch and slept soundly, but I still can’t pull the trigger.

I reason with myself some more. George is too dangerous to be allowed to live. Also, as far as justice goes, he deserves the ultimate punishment solely based on the number of police casualties on his head. Add in the dead monks, and he deserves double the death penalty.

I raise the gun to shoot him, but find that I still can’t.

What’s wrong with me? It’s not like George would be my first kill.

I killed that Russian mobster, the one who shot at Mira at the warehouse. I shot Jacob on that bridge. I Guided Kyle to get himself killed at the science conference. Sure, the first two times I acted in the heat of the moment, protecting people I care about. But with Kyle, it was colder. I meant to kill him from the get-go. Even though it was Victor who pulled the trigger, it could just as easily have been me.