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“No.”
“Really? Because I live right around the corner and I have a golden retriever who is a pain in the ass, you know? He needs a lot of training, and I could really use help from someone like you.”
“Not taking clients,” he says, coming out of the back with four leashes in his hand, all long.
All with choke collars on them.
A flash of Paigelynn wearing one of those, on her knees and crying out in pain makes me move, instantly, kicking The Basher in the balls.
Hey. I’m not above street fighting.
He slumps, giving me a split second to grab a leash he drops and loop it around his throat, jumping onto the van’s bumper. I pull him into the van, where I smell something copper, fresh and meaty.
Then my foot hits a soft, solid thing.
I’m pulled forward, almost flying over him in a somersault, but I get lucky and my legs hit a rim, giving me leverage. Both hands are needed to hold the leash around his neck, but he’s about to twist out, and then I’m a dead man.
I start pivoting my wrist and beating his eyes with the choke collar until I look and realize there’s a spray bottle of Bitter Apple next to me, the stuff you spray to get puppies to stop biting.
He leans back to try to wiggle out, which lets me shove my knees onto his shoulders, my thighs around his ears as I take the chance and use one hand to grab the spray bottle and spray the fuck out of his eyes.
He screams, hands flailing, but the open door keeps hitting his knee, the leash tighter as I twist it with both hands now, until he slows down enough that I can pull him all the way in the van.
Out of public sight.
Bad move.
Dying creatures will do anything – anything – to survive.
The burst of fatal, last-gasp desperation that he possesses and I do not causes him to kick up, snapping my jaw and making me let go. I fall back onto what is obviously the dead body of the guy who actually owns this van, my hand going into blood and slipping, and suddenly, The Basher is over me, his hands on my neck, his swollen eyes closing his lids so he can’t see a thing.
But at the rate I’m being strangled, I won’t have vision for much longer, either.
Paigelynn, I tell myself, gauging the situation as fast as I can, given I have about 45 seconds of oxygen left in me. He’s too big to overpower now. My only advantage is vision.
Think think think.
“You fucking slimy piece of shit. I’mma have fun with you,” he says, letting one hand off my windpipe so he can bash my face. Only because I know his methods, this gives me a momentary reprieve. I curl my ear down to my shoulder, wrenching my neck in an effort to avoid the blow.
I succeed, and as his hand hits the bottom of the van, I take my one and only chance to grab my gun and shoot him.
The little pop! is almost comical, my tiny gun feeling like a kid’s toy, but he grunts.
He loosens his grip.
And then he starts to gurgle.
I aimed the gun at his heart, and success is mine.
Now I have 250 pounds of solid muscle dying on top of me, while I’m sandwiched between The Basher and the guy he killed.
But I can breathe.
The van’s big enough that as The Basher thrashes, I wiggle out, standing while crouching, looking at the situation. My gun stays in my hand, but I look around, wondering what to do next.
Finish off The Basher to make sure he’s really dead?
Clean up and go into the house, pretending to be the dog training guy, and rescue Paigelynn?
