The Inner Circle

111

Palmiotti knew what to do.

Even now… with his head underwater… with her hands around his throat… Palmiotti knew what to do if he wanted to breathe again.

Thrashing wildly, he clapped his arms together so his fists collided with Clementine’s ears.

He couldn’t hear her scream. But he did feel her let go. His head broke the surface of the water. Gasping for fresh air, he heard the fire alarm still ringing. Water dripped from his nose, from his ears, from his chin. His neck-where he’d been shot-was burning now. From the amount of blood that soaked his right shoulder, he knew his internal jugular vein was lacerated. It was bad. Much worse than his forearm. But at least he could breathe.

Still coughing uncontrollably, he rolled sideways in the shallow water. He couldn’t see much, but there were small cracks of light in the plywood wall. His eyes adjusted fast.

Clementine rushed at him, raising her gun to-

Krkkk.

Palmiotti kicked hard-it was nothing but instinct-as his heel rammed Clementine’s unbent knee.

The crack was audible. Clementine’s leg nearly hyperextended as muscles and tendons were pulled like piano wire. Tumbling forward, she nosedived into the water.

She fought hard to get up, quickly climbing to her good knee. She knew what was coming.

She wasn’t nearly fast enough.

The first kick slammed into her stomach, lifting her off the ground and taking all the wind out of her.

“D’you even realize how stupid you are!?” Palmiotti growled, spit flying with every syllable. “Even before the hospital file-just on the threat of you knowing what we did to Eightball-we were willing to give you everything! You had us! You’d actually won!”

Clementine’s head was still down. Palmiotti gripped the back of her hair, twisting her head until she faced him and…

Pmmmp.

He rammed his knee in her face, sending her tumbling backward, splashing into the water. As fast as she could, she crabwalked back, trying to get away. She had no chance.

“Instead, when you heard about the file, you had to come here and be greedy…!” Palmiotti added, standing over her and grabbing her by the shirt. With a sharp tug, he lifted her up until the water reached her waist, then he punched her square in the face.

This time, though, it was Palmiotti who wasn’t letting go. He felt the throbbing at the wound in his neck. He could feel himself getting light-headed. He didn’t care. Cocking his arm back, he hit her again. And…

There was a loud click behind him.

“That’s enough,” a familiar voice announced.

Palmiotti turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Go away. This isn’t your problem anymore.”

“You are so incredibly wrong about that,” Beecher warned, aiming his gun straight at Palmiotti. “Let go of her now, and put your hands in the air.”