Minotaur

40

The Russian was twenty years older than Chapel, and he’d run to fat in his self-imposed exile, but still his fingers were like an iron vise as they dug into Chapel’s windpipe. His lungs were already empty and as he struggled to pull in any breath he could feel his wounds throbbing, feel fatigue pulling him down toward the deck as if gravity had suddenly been doubled.

The Russian’s eyes were bugging out of their sockets and his mouth was twisted in a horrible grimace as if he were the one being strangled. He stared right into Chapel’s eyes and Chapel had no doubt that Favorov intended to murder him, right here, right now.

He had to fight back, but he felt no stronger than a wet kitten. He lifted his arm and tried to bash his fist into the side of Favorov’s head. The blow landed but the Russian barely flinched. The pressure on Chapel’s neck didn’t let up at all.

A red aura surrounded his vision and he knew that in another few seconds his lungs would just give out, that his body, starved for oxygen, would simply quit on him. He had never been closer to death than in that moment, never so certain that his life was over. Even the urge to fight back was leaving him, replaced by a strange calm, a sort of relief. He’d tried his best. He hadn’t given up, even when the odds kept stacking up against him. Director Hollingshead couldn’t have asked more of him, or of any man. He was going to die, but he was surprisingly okay with that.

He let his hand fall back. Before it struck the deck it brushed against his pocket and his knuckles rapped against something hard there. Something small and oblong. Not that it mattered, not in the slightest. He could feel his eyes rolling back in his head. He couldn’t see anything any more. Couldn’t hear anything.

What was that thing in his pocket? He couldn’t seem to remember. It was of no consequence, and it was hardly the time to think of such things. But somehow the question nagged him, as if it were the last thing he needed to figure out before he went to sleep. Before he died. What was it?

Tired as he was he didn’t want to expend the energy even to shove his hand in his pocket. He got a few fingers in there and had to rest for a moment. That was all right. There was plenty of time. The last few seconds of his life seemed to have stretched out almost infinitely long.

He shoved his fingers a little deeper into his pocket. There—he could just touch the thing. Its shape felt odd, unknown. It wasn’t his hands-free set, which had been one possibility. It wasn’t anything he recognized. It was made of metal and it had a little ring on one end. A… pocketknife?

A Cub Scout knife. Of course! The one he’d taken away from Daniel. The one that had stabbed him twice in the leg. How funny that he’d managed to hold on to it, all through the escape from the house, the ride down the coastline, the swim in the icy water. He’d lost so much else. His phone. His weapons. His arm. Now his life.

But he still had the pocketknife.

Afterward Chapel would not remember making a conscious decision to do what came next. It would all be a blur in his memory.

He had very little strength left. Somehow he had enough to get the knife out of his pocket and, one-handed, swing out one of its blades. Just a tiny little knife, shorter than his thumb and thinner than a paring knife. It was probably meant for fine whittling work and nothing more. Maybe for cutting knots.

It had gone into Chapel’s leg with ease, so it had to be pretty sharp.

Chapel had been trained so thoroughly he didn’t need to think about what to do. His hand just moved. Favorov’s body was on top of him, in easy reach. The Russian was kneeling on the deck, his legs parted just a little. The blade went up and into his thigh with almost no resistance.

Chapel felt hot blood splash across his hand. And then, quite suddenly the fingers were gone from his throat. Favorov’s weight was off of him. And he could breathe.