Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part Six

11

 

 

Both feet left the decorative black balcony as Jack released his grip. Suddenly there was only air around him.

He hit the curve of the sun shade above the ground floor window, slid, tumbled through the air again then landed on his back in the middle of the lawn. His eyes turned black for a second. He couldn’t breathe. His back and shoulders and head were blank pain. He pushed, tilting his body, then got to his feet and staggered down the steps into the road. A truck roared past, its horn louder than its engine, but it didn’t hit him. It didn’t kill him.

The setting sun was in Jack’s face, pouring between the pillars of the bridge. He narrowed his eyes and started running into the light. He sprinted across the road and up the grassy slope, keeping to the path that ran to the toll booth and the entrance of the bridge. The light was so bright and low that he was blinded, but he went on running.

 

 

12

 

 

Lucy was lying against the hearth, neck crooked, legs splayed, bent at the knees.

Sam stared at her face. A smile shimmered on his lips for a split second. He couldn’t work out why she was lying down. Then he frowned. There was blood on her forehead; her cheeks; in her hair. It was almost dark in the little room despite or because of the sunset light coming through the window, but he could see it all clearly.  

She was dead. There was still blood flowing out of her. The boyfriend was not in the room. And the killer… the killer had just gone through the window.

He backed up, energy rushing into his muscles, body tensing. He turned fluidly, reaching inside his jacket in the same movement.

There was pressure against his brow. It was building.

He gripped the gun in its shoulder holster; pulled it out; span round to face the window.

Fake metal balcony out there. He leapt, knees up in front of him, smashed into the jagged remains of the glass; then he was through.

The tiny balcony was uneven with window fragments. His foot slipped, ankle twisting. It wasn’t designed to be anything more than decoration.

Sam roared profanity as his legs crumpled; grabbed the railing, pulled himself up.  

Fifty yards away, in the glare of the sunlight, he could make out a figure, running toward the bridge: Lucy’s boyfriend; the killer: blond hair; white shirt; jeans.

He snapped his right arm up straight; closed his left eye. The pressure against his brow was immense. He could barely see in the glare. He squeezed the trigger, stepping into it to steady his arm. The pistol exploded with noise, again and again. The shock wracked back up into his shoulder but he pushed forward more, the pressure almost too much.

He roared “BASTARD!”

Eight shots and the pistol was clicking. He stared at the grey silhouette of the man, still running, the suspension bridge beyond.

Then he flipped his legs over the railing, the gun falling from his fingers onto the balcony, forgotten.