You'll Be the Death of Me(80)

And fail.

My skull explodes in agony as Coach Kendall connects again, only I moved just enough that it’s not quite the knockout punch he was going for. I reach a hand out convulsively, grasping for anything that might help me, and my fingers brush rough fabric. Despite the pain radiating across every inch of my head, my thoughts are clear enough to know it’s Coach Kendall’s duffel bag. And to remember that he has a syringe full of…something.

Something that would help, if I could only get to it.

    I twist and thrash beneath Coach Kendall as his hands close around my neck, inching myself closer to the bag until my fingers brush the hard edge of a zipper. I tug at it and can feel it start to give way, creating a small opening at the top of the bag. It’s getting difficult to breathe, but I strain harder until I can slip my hand into the top of the bag. I flex my fingers, searching for something, anything, inside, when suddenly the pressure on my neck eases, only to be replaced with an agonizing twist at my wrist as Coach Kendall yanks my hand out of the bag.

“Nice try,” he says, and this time, I don’t have enough strength to even try to move when he hauls his fist back.

Then I feel white-hot pain, and stars erupt in front of me. They’re bright orange, flashing and dancing, and it occurs to me hazily as viselike pressure returns to my neck that they’re the last thing I’ll ever see.

I never did learn how to fight.

My hands curl into fists as I try anyway. I swing at whatever part of Coach Kendall I can reach, but it’s like punching a wall—painful for me, and nothing to him.

“No!” Ivy’s scream sounds like it’s coming from a thousand miles away. “Let him go! Let him go!” The clawing pressure on my neck disappears for a second, but then returns worse than before. All the breath leaves my lungs, and my hands fall to my sides, twitching uselessly. The orange stars expand and spin across my line of vision, sparkling like gems, impossibly bright and burning.

And tinged, suddenly, with a flashing ring of blue.

A new sound fills my ears. It’s not Ivy’s screams, or Coach Kendall’s grunts, or whatever the hell Lara is saying. It’s loud and commanding, crisp and official, and even though I can’t make out more than a word here or there—“surrounded” is one, and that seems like a good one—I cling to the sound, and the blue lights, and to whatever shreds of consciousness I have left, as I force my fingers beneath the slackening band at my neck. Air slips into my lungs and I suck it in, and then, suddenly, the crushing weight is gone.

    “Get down! Get down! On the floor! Hands over your head!” someone barks. Footsteps are everywhere. I try to obey because I think whoever it is must be talking to me, but my limbs won’t cooperate and I flounder on my back like a dying bug, weak and gasping, until a pair of gloved hands grasp mine.

“Okay, settle down. You’re all right,” someone says. It’s an unfamiliar voice, gruff and authoritative, but not without kindness. “Can you hear me, son? Your captor is in custody, and you are safe.”

“Ivy,” I gasp, blinking as I try to clear my vision. It’s no use, though. Lights are still dancing in front of my eyes, but all of them are blue now.

“Your friend is safe,” the voice promises. And I believe them enough that I let myself pass out.



* * *



—

I wake up on the ground outside, wrapped in a blanket that I struggle against until I see Ivy among the circle of faces looming above me. “How?” I rasp, letting someone help me sit up. It’s the only word I can manage to push out of my raw throat, but Ivy’s eyes are bright with understanding as she takes hold of my hand.

“Someone sent the police here,” she says.

“Who?” I ask.

    “I don’t know.” She shrugs, dislodging the blanket around her own shoulders. “You were only out for a few minutes, and no one’s told me anything yet.”

The officer holding me up is no help. “How about you rest now,” she suggests. “An ambulance is on its way.”

I don’t want an ambulance. I feel fine, sort of. I ignore the officer, my eyes trained on Ivy. “Was it Daniel, do you think?” I ask. “Did he use his super brain to figure things out?”

“Not this time,” Ivy snorts. “I just talked to Trevor. They were at Olive Garden when Coach Kendall texted me, totally clueless. Daniel didn’t even realize his phone was gone. It was easy to hack, since all the lax guys use the same passcode so they can take pictures with each other’s phones during games.” She rolls her eyes. “Bunch of dumbasses.”

“Lara, maybe?” I hate the hopeful lilt in my voice. Ivy pretends not to notice, but there’s no missing the way her face hardens.

“She didn’t help us” is all she says.

A transmitter clipped to the officer’s hip crackles beside us. “Witness family, incoming,” it intones. I cut my eyes toward Ivy, questioning. She swallows and shakes her head. “Mine are in a cab, stuck in rush-hour traffic. Must be you.”

I rise as quickly as I can, helped by the officer, and eagerly scan the area. Every police car on the scene has its lights flashing, illuminating the street so brightly that Lara’s deserted neighborhood looks like a movie set. I don’t see my parents, but I know they must be nearby, and that’s almost as good. There are what look like a dozen police cars parked around us, plus Ivy’s car, and then…