Chasing Gold

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

The day stretched taut like a ragged nerve about to snap.

Alicia’s fingers weren’t fast enough to use her gun, but Russo was close and brutal enough to give the terrorist an instant of pause.

He fired anyway.

But Russo was a cannonball, a missile made of bone as hard as mountains, flesh the thickness of animal hide. His body, airborne, struck the terrorist at shoulder height, folding him fast and knocking the weapon out of his hand. Russo fell and then spun in the sand, as quick as Alicia had ever seen anyone move and, even before she ran past, was on top of the downed terrorist, reaching for his neck.

Her heart leapt when she saw his face.

Shit… that’s…

The berserker rage.

A dilemma fell over her, causing her pace to falter. Russo’s concern for the civilians and hatred for anyone that would try to murder innocents so heartlessly had manifested into the one thing he hated. It was not Russo anymore. It was an animal.

She saw the terrorists ahead, getting further away with every moment that passed. The FBI were to the right, keeping track but choosing not to close the gap at the moment. In the distance, maybe a quarter of a mile away, she believed she could see a small jetty and several moored boats.

Russo locked massive fingers around his opponent’s throat and commenced to smash a fist into his face. Again and again the sledgehammer came down.

Alicia cursed. It wasn’t the stranger she worried about; it was Russo’s sanity.

The fist came down at the rate of one blow per second. Russo was gone; his face red, his eyes wild, spittle flying from between his lips which bled profusely because he had bitten them in his rage. The grunts coming from his throat were feral, inhuman. Alicia couldn’t let this happen.

Waving at the civilians to run back toward the hotel, she approached Russo, shouting at the top of her voice. He didn’t even acknowledge her. She bent over and punched him in the side of the head. There was nothing in response, not even a grimace as she rabbit-punched his ear.

The man on the ground was smashed and bloody, barely moving, blood bubbling from his mouth and covering his face like a thick blanket.

Alicia tapped the barrel of her gun firmly against the back of Russo’s neck.

“Rob. Come back to me. Rob!”

The fist was raised once more.

“Listen to me! It’s me! Alicia!”

That last word halted the descending hammer blow in mid-air as if Russo had suddenly been frozen. Blood dripped from his knuckles into the sand below. The terrorist groaned. Russo’s entire body seemed to slump, and he fell to one side.

Alicia jumped on top of him, slapping his face. “You there? Rob? Are you back to the land of the fucking living?”

He reached up to grab her hands. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah.”

She slapped him once more for luck. “You sure?”

“Get the hell off me. I don’t like you that way and your skinny ass is cutting into my ribs!”

She rolled clear. “Bastard,” she said. “That’s just rude. Now seriously, are you okay?”

Russo forced his bulk out of the sand and upright. “Y’know something? It was your name that cut through. Your fucking, goddamn name. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Not really,” she said. “Most men have an inbuilt, primal, subconscious fear of me. It’s who I am.”

“Right,” Russo said clearly without understanding. “Right.”

“He’ll be all right, but he’s going nowhere.” Alicia indicated the prone terrorist. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, and thanks, Alicia. Thanks for caring for me.”

She turned away. “Back to the fray.”