She strangled on another coughing fit as Brett’s long-ago instructions rolled up from her memory.
“Don’t aim to wound…go for the kill…a severed carotid artery will yield unconsciousness in seven to thirty seconds. Death in minutes…be decisive. Be ruthless. Give yourself the best possible odds of escape.”
It was odd how suited his words were to the circumstances. As though he’d looked into the future and given her advice for this very moment. Back then, she hadn’t thought she could actually kill someone. But now, with Brett’s lifeless body pinned in her mind, a hard, hot kernel of rage swelled.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
As she grabbed the jacket, the small silver scissors came into view. She lifted the jacket, keeping it between Mitch and the scissors, trying to block his view. It made more sense to throw the jacket at him instead of the bag. If the jacket spread out, it could block his sight.
Aim for the carotid.
Suppressing another cough, she reaffirmed the decision in her mind. Her pulse surged. Her muscles tensed. She had to get this right. She’d only have the one chance.
Calling up Brett’s demonstration of where the carotid artery was on the human neck, she forcibly slowed her breathing and focused her mind. After several shallow, careful breaths to fortify herself and evade the coughing, she snatched up the scissors and spun, tossing the jacket at Mitch’s head.
She was already moving, diving across the bed, when the shot rang out. Adrenaline and terror kept her body in motion.
Vaguely aware of a stitch in her left side, she rolled off the foot of the bed, so close to Mitch his shoes were right next to her head. So was the leather jacket. He must have batted it away while she was rolling.
He swore and bent toward her. There…right there…that was the area Brett had showed her. The carotid artery was there. She thrust up with the scissors as he bent toward her, driving them into the side of his neck. He roared. The hand he’d reached down with changed directions and flew up to his neck.
Still bent over, he pulled the scissors out and unleashed a geyser of crimson.
Warm wetness showered down on her.
Holy crap, there was blood everywhere. She must have actually hit the artery.
“You bitch.” His voice was cold, but normal as he turned the gun toward her head.
She clenched her fists and lunged for it, knocking it out of his hand. Gulping back a relieved breath, she watched it go tumbling across the carpet.
Instead of going after the gun or trying to grab her again, both of his hands clamped over his neck, apparently trying to stem the flow of blood.
Instantly, a crimson tide covered his hands, streaming down his neck and soaking his shirt. He’d shut off the geyser, but not the bleeding.
The metallic, coppery scent of blood mixed with the acidic smell of smoke. The combination rolled her stomach. Her coughing morphed into gagging.
Seven to thirty seconds Brett had said. Which meant anytime, now…anytime.
Judging by the volume of blood, she must have struck what she’d been aiming for.
Go down. Go down.
He swayed as she coughed-gagged and scooted backwards along the bottom of the bed. He wasn’t going down fast enough. He needed an extra nudge. She drew her knees up to her chest and kicked out and up, slamming her feet into his knees. He teetered for a moment, then slowly went over backwards.
She was already rolling to her feet when a solid thunk sounded behind her. Then a deafening crash. Chancing a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw him slide down the front of the wildly rocking dresser. The television hovered there for a second and then slowly toppled over, landing on Mitch’s head. A crack sounded. The T.V. kept going, slamming onto the floor with a muffled thud.
Mitch slumped. His eyes closed.
She hesitated for a second, the instinct to help kicking in. To try to save him. But then dozens of horror flicks rose up in her mind. What if he was still awake? What if he had a knife? What if he attacked her?
Besides, if she’d severed the carotid, there was nothing she could do for him anyway.
There was nothing anyone could do for him.
Turning, she bolted for the door, vaguely aware of the return of the stitch in her side. She must have pulled a muscle when she’d rolled off the bed.