The Sentry - By Robert Crais Page 0,5

back, and tried to get up, but Pike racked his face into the floor.

Pike said, “Stop.”

Pike had neutralized the assailant and secured the premises in less than six seconds.

The older man tried to sit up as Pike worked.

Pike said, “You good?”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine. Blood veiled his face and spattered the floor. The man saw the red spots, touched his face, then examined the red on his fingers.

“Shit. I’m bleeding.”

The man rose to a knee, but tipped sideways and ended up on his butt.

Pike took out his phone and thumbed in 911.

“Stay down. I’m getting the paramedics.”

The man squinted at Pike, and Pike could tell he had trouble focusing.

“You a cop?”

“No.”

“I don’t need the paramedics. Catch my breath, I’ll be fine.”

The kicker twisted his head to see Pike.

“You ain’t a cop, an’ you broke my arm? You bitch, you better lemme up.”

Pike pinned him with a knee, making the kicker gasp.

When the 911 operator came on the line, Pike described the situation and the victim’s injury, told her he had a suspect in hand, and asked her to send the police.

The man made a feeble attempt to rise again.

“Fuck all that. Just throw the asshole out.”

Pike had seen pretty much every violent injury that could happen to a human being, so he knew wounds pretty well. Scalp wounds produced a lot of blood and weren’t generally serious, but it had taken a hard blow to split the man’s forehead.

“Stay down. You have a concussion.”

“Fuck that. I’m fine.”

The man pulled his legs under himself, pushed to his feet, then passed out and fell.

Pike wanted to go to him, but the kicker was bunching to rise.

“Better get off me, ese. You gonna be sorry.”

Pike dug his thumb into the side of the man’s neck where the C3 nerve root emerged from the third vertebra, crushing the root into the bone. This caused the man’s shoulder and chest to go numb with a sharp flash of pain. His diaphragm locked and his breathing stopped mid-breath. The C3 nerve controlled the diaphragm.

“If you get up, I’ll do this again. It will hurt worse.”

Pike released the pressure, and knew the man’s shoulder and arm now burned as if they had been flushed with napalm.

“We good?”

The man gave a breathless grunt, eyes rolling toward Pike like a Chihuahua watching a pit bull.

“Yuh.”

Pike straightened the man so he could breathe more easily, then checked his pulse. His pulse was strong, but his pupils were different sizes, which indicated a concussion. Pike pressed a wad of napkins to the man’s wound to stop the bleeding.

The kicker said, “Who the fuck are you, man?”

“Don’t speak again.”

If Pike had not stopped for air, he would not have seen the men or crossed the street. He would not have met the woman he was about to meet. Nothing that was about to happen would have happened. But Pike had stopped. And now the worst was coming.

The paramedics arrived six minutes later.

2

The paramedics were two sturdy, forty-something women who pulled on vinyl gloves when they saw the blood. They went to work on the victim while Pike filled them in.

The banger, facedown on the floor with Pike’s knee in his back, said, “Dude broke my arm. He attacked me, yo? I need somethin’ for the pain.”

The lead paramedic glanced at Pike. Her name was Stiles.

“He the guy who did this?”

“Him and a friend.”

“His arm really broken?”

“Uh-huh.”

She told Pike to let the man sit up, then nodded at her partner.

“Check out the lovely. I have this one.”

Stiles managed to rouse the victim, whose speech was muddy and slurred, but grew more focused as she checked his pulse and blood pressure. He identified himself as Wilson Smith, a transplant from New Orleans who relocated after the storm. Pike found it interesting Smith did not refer to Hurricane Katrina by name; he called it “the storm.” Pike also found it interesting that Mr. Smith did not have what Pike would have called a Southern accent. He sounded like he was from New York.

When Stiles flashed a penlight in his eyes, Smith tried to push her away.

“I’m okay.”

“No, sir, you’re not. You have a scalp wound with an open flap, and a concussion. My guess, you’re looking at ten or twelve stitches here. We’re bringing you in.”

“I’m fine.”

Smith tried to push her away again, but abruptly threw up. He settled down after that and closed his eyes. Pike watched the paramedics work as he waited for the officers to arrive. He was in