Remote (17 page)

The whole situation was insane, but what he was about to do next was as far past crazy as the orbit of the moon was past the arc of a thrown ball.  Jack figured that as soon as the door opened, Remote’s attention would be on the doorway as opposed to the camera that had been monitoring it—which meant he wouldn’t see what Jack was about to attempt.

Jack leaned down and pulled the microwave door from where it lay, on top of the mattress.  He tossed the door down onto the electrified panel with a
clang
, then backed up a few steps.  He ripped the cord off the wooden post, melting plastic burning his bare leg as it brushed against it—then ran straight at the plate, leaping as high as he could at the last second, clutching his club in both hands.  His bare feet landed squarely on the glass of the microwave door, and he heard it crack; he had a timeless second to regret that he hadn’t thought of smashing it and using the shards as a weapon earlier, and then the door skittered across the metal plate with Jack on it like a skimboard over flat water.

He shot through the narrow upper gap of the doorway and into the room itself, diving forward as soon as he cleared the threshold.  He hit the floor and rolled, thankful for the thick carpet. 

Standing to the right of the door was a man a little taller than Jack, well-built, in his mid-thirties and dressed all in white: white silk pajamas, white slip-on loafers.   The dark stubble that covered his chin and upper lip was the same as the fuzz on his head, a five o’clock shadow that fell over most of his skull.  His eyes were dark and intent, and he held a long metal bar in both of his hands.

No gun,
Jack had time to think, and then the bar was arcing viciously toward his head.

He managed to get the club up in time to block the blow, backing away to give himself some maneuvering room.  Remote swung again, and Jack felt the wooden post crack under the impact.

His attacker was relentless, using the bar more like a quarterstaff than a club, short strikes that had less power but came faster, forcing Jack into a defensive posture.  The wooden post snapped in two on the third blow. 

It gave Jack the opportunity to go on the offensive, swinging both ends of the posts like batons at either side of Remote’s head before he could get the bar back up.  It was a good, solid shot over both ears, guaranteed to both a double burst of blinding pain and maybe even puncture an eardrum.

Remote ignored it. 

He snapped the bar up under Jack’s chin, straightening him up and sending him staggering back.  It felt like he’d been kicked in the jaw by an angry Clydesdale, his balance going sideways and his vision blurring.

He backpedaled, trying to buy time.   He’d dropped one of his clubs.  Remote hefted his bar, sizing him up, content to not press his advantage for the moment. 

“Surprised, Closer?” Remote said.  “Expecting to find a soft little invertebrate inside the hard shell?”

Jack blinked, tried to focus.  “If you mean a bug under a rock, then yes.  Looks like I was right, too.”

Jack hefted his weapon.  It felt absurdly light, but at least it had splintered into several sharp points at the end.  He could try to go for the eyes.

“I have to say, this is quite exhilarating.  I never thought it would come down to hand-to-hand combat.”

Remote grinned with white, even teeth.  A trickle of blood ran down the edge of his cheek; Jack must have cut him with the jagged end of his club.   “But I’m glad it did, Closer.  Now we can take the true measure of each other . . .”

***

They finally just stopped driving.  There was no place to pull over; the trees crowded in on either side, and the potholes under the snow had been getting worse and worse.  Nikki was afraid they might get stuck if they went any further.  It wasn’t like any other traffic was about to come barreling down the road, anyway.

“Okay, what now?” Parkins asked, glancing at her nervously.  Goliath had settled down as soon as they’d stopped, but Nikki knew that wouldn’t last.

“Now I shoot both of you, leave your bodies in the snow, then hike back to the main road and try to hitch a ride.”

She gave a tired sigh at the look on Parkin’s face.  “Okay, okay, bad joke.  Sorry.  I’m under a little stress here, all right?”

“I can see that.  But now that we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere things are
much
better, right?”

“Oh, sure.  Now all I have to worry about is losing both my prisoners—the Incredible Hulk back there is going to start concentrating on breaking down the door now that we’re no longer moving, and if I take my eyes off you for more than a second you’ll probably bolt for the woods.  Word of advice:  if Goliath gets loose first, head in the opposite direction.  He might try to eat you.”

“Noted.  But, uh, you don’t really have to worry about me taking off.  I mean—“ He held up the wrist handcuffed to the steering wheel.  “—even disregarding this, the whole hiking-gone-wrong cover story seems less plausible if I get found fifty miles away from Sacramento.”

“You could tell them you were bored.  Decided to do a little jogging.”

“Oh, yeah.  In the snow.  In November.”

Nikki took the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them.  “No offense, but I can’t trust you just yet.”  She opened her door.

“Where are you going?”

“To have a little talk with the Unjolly Giant.”

She pulled the gun out of the waistband of her pants as she walked around to the back of the trailer.  “Hey, Tiny!” she called out.  “I’m gonna open the door now.  You try to pull any shit like last time, I’m just gonna put a bullet or twelve in your hairy ass.  Got it?”

For a few moments, there was no sound but the barely audible impact of clumpy, water-heavy snowflakes hitting the metal skin of the trailer.

“Yeah, I got it,” a voice growled from inside.

“You’re not under the impression you’re bulletproof right now, are you?  ‘Cause I’d hate to prove you wrong.”

“I’m not crazy.”  A low chuckle.  “Much.  Cold air and a little workout helped.”

“Okay, get right to the back of the trailer.  Tap one of your chains against the wall so I know you’re there.”

She heard a rattling clink as he moved, his chains dragging on the floor, then a steady tap tap tap from the far end.  She thought it was the far end; the echoes the trailer produced made it hard to tell.

She undid the padlock sealing the door, gun in hand, then stepped back quickly as the door opened. 

“Hey,” Goliath said from where he stood at the back of the trailer.  “What’s going on?”

Not much
, Nikki thought. 
You’ve been traded by one psycho for another, only he’s actually my partner who intends to torture him for his secrets before coming back to do the same to you.  And I have a very confused and hungover accountant handcuffed in the driver’s seat that I’ve promised to let go when all this is over so don’t kill him in a fit of psychotic rage, okay?

What she said was, “Let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

Nikki could hear him, but standing in the back of the trailer all she could make out was a tall, shadowy figure. 
Jesus, it’s like having a conversation with a bear that just came out of hibernation
. “A real simple one.  See, I’m not your enemy, here.  I’m not the one that kidnapped you, drugged you, or chained you up.  I just kind of—well,
inherited
you.”

“So you don’t
want
me?  Boo fucking hoo.  Let me go and I’m taillights in the distance.”

“Yeah, no, I can’t do that.  Not just yet.  But in the meantime, you and I do have something in common, something we both want.”

“What’s that?”

“The ass of the guy that
did
catch you.”

A long pause.  Then:  “Keep talking . . .”

***

Jack wondered why Remote hadn’t attacked again.

His weapon gave him a longer reach, he’d rattled Jack enough to make him back away—but he wasn’t capitalizing on any of it.  Was it fear, or arrogance?  Was Jack overlooking something vital, something Remote knew that gave him an unbeatable edge?

Remote took a step toward him, changing his grip so that held the bar more like a bat resting on his shoulder.  In that second, Jack understood.

It wasn’t fear or arrogance.  It was inexperience.

You couldn’t swing a bar that heavy as if it were made to swat baseballs out of the air, and you
never
got that close to an opponent while holding a long-handled weapon like that—it was an incredibly stupid move, one Jack took immediate advantage of.  He leapt straight at Remote, inside any possible arc of the bar—not that Remote had a hope in hell of swinging that much mass around in a split-second—and smashed the base of his forearm, just above the elbow, into Remote’s nose. 

Remote’s head snapped back.  Blood fountained.  Jack stayed close, not letting Remote use the bar, slamming his knee into his opponent’s groin.  There was no discernable reaction.

  The bar was trapped between them now, cold hard metal pressed against Jack’s throat as Remote tried to force him back.  Jack jabbed the sharp, splintery end of the post into the side of Remote’s head.  Part of it went through Remote’s cheek and broke off when Jack pulled it out.

His face only inches away, Remote smiled.

Jack jammed the club at his head again, going for the ear.

Nothing.

Again.  Again.  Wet, fleshy sounds every time the jagged end punched through flesh.  Blood flowed freely.

Remote dropped the bar.  He locked both his hands around Jack’s throat.  The smile on his face got wider. 

“You can’t beat me,” he said.  His tone was casual, almost jovial.  “This is the end for you.”

Jack tried lower, jabbing at his neck, but most of the sharp ends had broken off by now and he couldn’t do any serious damage from the angle.   He switched back to using it as a club, hammering at Remote’s head, but now Jack was the one with no room to swing. 

And no room to breathe.  Remote’s hands squeezed around his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen. 

Jack changed tactics, bringing the club low and driving it up as hard as he could into Remote’s armpit.  The nerve cluster there would send a jolt of pain down Remote’s arm so intense that he couldn’t possibly maintain his grip—

But he did. 

And again, ignored Jack’s attack completely.

Drugs? No, his pupils aren’t dilated, his speech isn’t slurred, his co-ordination’s good.  He’s just—

Unstoppable.

Jack could feel the panic reaction from having his air cut off start to scream at the base of his brain.  He had to break Remote’s grip before he passed out.

Come on, come on, don’t lose it, you can
take
this guy, you’ve studied scenarios just like this one and he’s a newbie who doesn’t know what’s doing—

Jack stopped struggling.  He brought the club down to waist level, then poked the end of it up, between Remote’s forearms.  He reached over them with his other hand, grabbed the end of the club, and pulled down with one hand and pushed up with the other. 

Once the leverage broke Remote’s grip, Jack let go of the club and grabbed Remote’s wrist.  He pivoted, throwing his hip to the side, flipping the man around and down.

Then it was Jack’s turn to turn down the lights. 

He got an arm around Remote’s throat, locked it in place by grabbing his own opposite arm.  Snugged his elbow under Remote’s chin while shoving his stubbly skull forward with his other arm.  Jack wasn’t trying to cut off the air to his opponent’s lungs; he was stopping the flow of blood to Remote’s brain, using the pressure of his arms to restrict the jugular and carotid arteries in what used to be called a sleeper hold.  These days it was usually referred to as a rear naked choke—a fact Jack found blackly funny considering all he wore at the moment was a strip of white leather tied around his waist.

Remote didn’t seem to find it humorous at all.

He reared up, lifting Jack off his feet, and they both half-staggered, half-fell backward.  They crashed into something angular and metal behind them--Jack’s head smacked into something hard enough to make bright spots flare in front of his eyes—then tumbled over.

But Jack refused to let go. 

Remote spasmed, twisting and clawing, incoherent grunts coming from his mouth.  His motions gradually subsided as cerebral ischemia took over, his brain shutting down from hypoxia.  He slumped against Jack as his body finally went limp.

Jack released the hold, but didn’t move for a moment.  He was out of breath and almost every inch of his body ached. 

“Chalk one up for the caveman,” he said, and pushed Remote’s body off his own.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

The object they’d knocked over during the struggle turned out to be a weight bench. 

Jack’s first priority was restraining Remote.  That proved surprisingly easy: Remote had already prepped a padded metal chair, bolting it to the wall and attaching thick plastic zipties to the arms and legs.  Jack inspected the chair carefully for any hidden surprises and found none; a quick search of Remote’s clothes produced no hidden weapons or devices either.  He hauled the unconscious man over by his ankles, got him into the chair and secured his wrists and ankles.

Jack leaned back and rested for a moment.  He was exhausted, muscles shaky with the aftereffects of adrenaline and benzodiazepine; his body felt like he’d fallen off a mountain and landed on a pile of broken glass.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on just breathing.

His head swam and dots danced in his vision, but he didn’t pass out.  When the dizziness finally subsided, he opened his eyes and looked around.

He was in a large, rectangular room.  Behind him in the corner was the door he’d just come through.   To one side was an exercise area, with a weight bench, racks of barbells, and a sophisticated looking treadmill.  The chair Remote was restrained in was in the opposite corner to the door, facing toward it.

The front of the room was dominated by the large, bleached-white wooden desk and the multiple wall-mounted flatscreens--sixteen of them, each split into a fourway grid, sixty-four views in all.  Only the bottom row was active, though, showing sixteen different views of the interior and exterior of the house.  The other screens were all locked on one image, the same one Jack had seen blown up to poster-size in Remote’s bedroom.  “I’m Not
Ascared
of YOU!”, repeated over and over like a video mantra, a collage of fearlessness and bad grammar.