one of the other guards, a husky man with a big handlebar mustache.
“Shut up!” Waylon shouted—and the handlebar guy did as he was told.
Waylon’s face was close to mine. His fist dug into my throat. He grinned as I gasped and choked. Something stirred in my mind, some memory of him linked with fear. I didn’t know who Waylon was—I still couldn’t recover his image from wherever it was hidden in my brain—but it was there, all right, somewhere, and the memory was associated with terror.
“But before I kill you, we’re going to have a talk,” he told me. “We’re going to finish the conversation we started before you ran away. And this time, there’s not going to be any escape. This time, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Waylon . . . ,” said the handlebar guy again.
Waylon ignored him. He was enjoying himself too much. He was enjoying his threats, enjoying the fear he must’ve seen in my eyes, enjoying my fight for breath as he twisted his fist into my throat.
But even as his threats and his rank breath washed over me, I understood what the handlebar guy was trying to tell him, I understood what was going to happen next, and I was getting ready for it.
“There’s no one left to help you,” Waylon said. “All of Waterman’s friends have run off like the cowards they are. There’s only one other person who knows about you at all. And before you die—which will be in agony, by the way—you’re going to tell me who he is, and you’re going to die knowing that I’m going to kill him too. Because we’re almost ready to—”
And then the bunker blew up underneath us.
The time on the bomb had finally winked down to zero. The explosives went off and the blast was tremendous. Everything in that bunker—including Waterman’s body—must have been blown to smithereens.
And it rocked the ground above as well. It shook under my feet like an earthquake had hit. The four guards staggered—but they’d been waiting for it—waiting and trying to warn Waylon that it was coming. But Waylon hadn’t listened. He’d been so completely distracted by his dealings with me that the noise and the rumble took him totally by surprise.
His eyes went wide and he lost his grip on me, instinctively grabbing his gun to keep it secure as he stumbled a step to the side. It was only a step. He was about to recover.
But before he could, I punched him.
It was a full-force uppercut. I’d been ready to throw it, waiting for the chance. And, to be perfectly honest, it had a little extra charge in it because, for some reason, I just didn’t much like this guy. My fist connected with his jaw. He would’ve gone flying backward if I hadn’t grabbed hold of his arm with my left hand at the same time. Quickly, I twisted him around and wrapped my arm around his throat, holding him in front of me, between me and the other guards. I took hold of his gun and twisted it upward, jamming the barrel under his chin.
The four guards had recovered from the force of the blast and had their guns leveled at me, but they froze when they saw me using Waylon as a shield.
“Stay where you are,” I told them. “I don’t want to kill him, but I will.”
And I would’ve too.
Waylon was still heavy in my grasp, nearly unconscious from the uppercut to his chin. He was woozy and staggering. Only by using all my strength could I keep him in place in front of me.
“You got nowhere to go, West,” the blond guard growled at me furiously.
But I was already backing away from him, backing away from all of them, edging toward the trees that surrounded the ruins.
“West!” the blond guard shouted in his fury and frustration.
I kept going, backing away, holding Waylon up in front of me, holding his gun up under his chin. As I came to the edge of the ruins, there was some sort of structure standing there in the morning mist: the slanted ruin of a wall, I guess, with rebar sticking out here and there from the concrete.
I
“Shut up!” Waylon shouted—and the handlebar guy did as he was told.
Waylon’s face was close to mine. His fist dug into my throat. He grinned as I gasped and choked. Something stirred in my mind, some memory of him linked with fear. I didn’t know who Waylon was—I still couldn’t recover his image from wherever it was hidden in my brain—but it was there, all right, somewhere, and the memory was associated with terror.
“But before I kill you, we’re going to have a talk,” he told me. “We’re going to finish the conversation we started before you ran away. And this time, there’s not going to be any escape. This time, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Waylon . . . ,” said the handlebar guy again.
Waylon ignored him. He was enjoying himself too much. He was enjoying his threats, enjoying the fear he must’ve seen in my eyes, enjoying my fight for breath as he twisted his fist into my throat.
But even as his threats and his rank breath washed over me, I understood what the handlebar guy was trying to tell him, I understood what was going to happen next, and I was getting ready for it.
“There’s no one left to help you,” Waylon said. “All of Waterman’s friends have run off like the cowards they are. There’s only one other person who knows about you at all. And before you die—which will be in agony, by the way—you’re going to tell me who he is, and you’re going to die knowing that I’m going to kill him too. Because we’re almost ready to—”
And then the bunker blew up underneath us.
The time on the bomb had finally winked down to zero. The explosives went off and the blast was tremendous. Everything in that bunker—including Waterman’s body—must have been blown to smithereens.
And it rocked the ground above as well. It shook under my feet like an earthquake had hit. The four guards staggered—but they’d been waiting for it—waiting and trying to warn Waylon that it was coming. But Waylon hadn’t listened. He’d been so completely distracted by his dealings with me that the noise and the rumble took him totally by surprise.
His eyes went wide and he lost his grip on me, instinctively grabbing his gun to keep it secure as he stumbled a step to the side. It was only a step. He was about to recover.
But before he could, I punched him.
It was a full-force uppercut. I’d been ready to throw it, waiting for the chance. And, to be perfectly honest, it had a little extra charge in it because, for some reason, I just didn’t much like this guy. My fist connected with his jaw. He would’ve gone flying backward if I hadn’t grabbed hold of his arm with my left hand at the same time. Quickly, I twisted him around and wrapped my arm around his throat, holding him in front of me, between me and the other guards. I took hold of his gun and twisted it upward, jamming the barrel under his chin.
The four guards had recovered from the force of the blast and had their guns leveled at me, but they froze when they saw me using Waylon as a shield.
“Stay where you are,” I told them. “I don’t want to kill him, but I will.”
And I would’ve too.
Waylon was still heavy in my grasp, nearly unconscious from the uppercut to his chin. He was woozy and staggering. Only by using all my strength could I keep him in place in front of me.
“You got nowhere to go, West,” the blond guard growled at me furiously.
But I was already backing away from him, backing away from all of them, edging toward the trees that surrounded the ruins.
“West!” the blond guard shouted in his fury and frustration.
I kept going, backing away, holding Waylon up in front of me, holding his gun up under his chin. As I came to the edge of the ruins, there was some sort of structure standing there in the morning mist: the slanted ruin of a wall, I guess, with rebar sticking out here and there from the concrete.
I
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