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He looks at the gun like it somehow let him down. Then he hurls it out over the canyon.
I step toward him and tell him to put his hands in the air. I reach for my handcuffs, but when he looks at me, something in his face—a defiance in his eyes—gives me pause.
“I told you,” he says, “I’m not going to prison!”
He rushes toward me, and I hardly have time to react. He slams his hands into my chest, giving me a herculean shove that throws me backward. I barely keep my feet, and just as I’m getting my balance back, he throws a jab into my ribs—right where one of the two-by-fours smacked me. I gasp in pain. As quick as a snake, he lashes out with another punch to my gut. I bend over, air whooshing out of my mouth. I take a step back, trying to recover, but he swings a hard uppercut, catching my jaw. My head whips back. I fall onto my back, my head over the edge of the train car’s roof. Dazed, I crane my neck and look down at the drop awaiting me—a steep slope of jagged rocks. I experience a wave of vertigo and feel like I’m going to roll right off.
Parker grabs me, hauling me away from the edge.
“I don’t want to kill you, Rory,” he says. “But if I have to hurt you a little, I will.”
I shake my head, trying to orient myself. He’s dragging me over to the other side, where the drop might not be deadly.
“No,” I say, pushing his hands off. “You’re coming with—”
He hits me again in the ribs, and the pain almost buckles my knees. I hobble backward, my arms up in defense. But then I realize I’m headed toward the back corner of the train car, running out of space to retreat.
“When you hit the ground,” he says, “roll away from the train.”
I throw a punch, but he blocks it with his forearm and jabs me in the cheekbone with his other fist. I feel myself reeling, and he hits me with a haymaker that spins me around. I collapse onto my hands and knees, right at the corner of the car. A string of bloody saliva hangs from my mouth, caught in the wind.
“Sorry, Rory,” he says. “You might be better than me with a gun, but you ain’t got nothing on me when it comes to a good old-fashioned fistfight.”
I still have my gun, I realize.
I don’t want to kill him. But maybe I can wound him. He doesn’t seem to have a problem doing that to me.
I rise, spinning around as I snatch my pistol from its holster. But I’m too late. He hits me with a side kick—his boot slamming into my ribs like a sledgehammer—and sends me off the edge.
My pistol goes flying.
And my body goes airborne, plummeting toward the ground below.
CHAPTER 52
I THROW OUT my hands and pray that they find something to grab onto. Just as my legs slam against the ground, my right hand snatches a metal bar.
I hold on with all my strength as my legs are dragged behind me in the dirt next to the gleaming metal rail of the train. The giant wheels of the train pump and grind only a few feet away. If I let go, I’ll have to roll just right to avoid amputating one or both legs.
I lurch forward with my other hand and grab onto the metal bar. It’s the bottom rung of a ladder running along the outside of the train car.
I try to pull myself up to the second rung of the ladder, but I just don’t have the strength. Heat emanates from under the train like an open oven door.
From above, Parker calls down to me, and I strain my neck to see him.
“Roll away from the train,” he shouts, motioning with his arm.
I say nothing. I can’t. It’s all I can do to hold on.
Parker looks frustrated. He checks his watch and looks at me with an expression that says,I can’t wait all day. I’ve got a robbery to finish.
“Goodbye, Rory,” he calls down. “Don’t die!”
He disappears.
It’s time to give up, I tell myself.
I’m beaten.
