Page 62 of Break For Me
He takes the final step. He is within my four feet. He reaches for my right hand.
My good hand.
I let him. I let his fingers close around my wrist. I let him see the compliance in my eyes. The surrender.
He is not a brawler. He is a manager. He has never been in a cage with an animal that has nothing left to lose. He does not understand the physics of desperation.
His grip is firm. He pulls my hand forward. The pliers open.
I don’t think. Thinking is a luxury.
I explode.
I come off the floor like a spring uncoiling. All two hundred and forty pounds of my body moving as a single unit. I don’t go for his throat. I don’t go for the weapon.
I go for his knee.
My shoulder hits the joint from the side. The impact is a solid, satisfying thud. I feel the cartilage tear, the ligaments pop. He screams—a high, sharp, surprised sound. His leg buckles. He goes down.
The pliers fly from his hand, skittering across the floor. The flashlight drops, the beam spinning wildly, turning the container into a chaotic strobe of light and shadow.
I am on him. My right hand finds his throat. My thumb presses into the soft tissue just below his jaw, cutting off the air.
His hands claw at my arm. His fingers dig into the muscles, seeking purchase. He is stronger than he looks. Wiry. Trained.
But he is not a hammer. I am.
I drive his head against the steel floor. Once. Twice. The sound is a dull, wet thud. His body goes limp beneath me.
I release him. I sit back, my chest heaving, my body screaming from the exertion. The chain is pulled taut, the steel biting into my wrist.
Dmitri lies on the floor, unconscious. The pliers are three feet away. The flashlight casts a steady beam on the corrugated wall.
I crawl to the flashlight. I pick it up.
I crawl to the pliers. I pick them up.
The padlock on my cuff is heavy, solid brass. Not a cheap master lock. A serious piece of hardware. But it’s a pin-tumbler lock. Four pins. Maybe five.
I look at the pliers. I look at the padlock.
Adrian is alive. Adrian wants to trade himself for me. Adrian is somewhere in this terminal, waiting.
I break the flashlight against the wall. The plastic shatters. I find the metal clip from the battery housing. It’s thin, flexible steel.
I bend it with the pliers, shaping it into a tension wrench. I use the pointed tip of the pliers to create a pick.
The tools are crude. My hand is shaking. The light is shit.
But I have a purpose. I have a reason.
I am not a hammer. I am a shield.
And the man I am shielding is waiting for me.
I insert the tension wrench into the lock. I apply a gentle, steady pressure.
I slide the pick in. I feel for the first pin.
