The Sagittarius Ring by Arthur Hall
‘Wasn’t that the turn, back there?’ I had expected him to take the most direct route, near Ba Mau Lake.
‘Short cut, get you there faster.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s the wrong direction.’
He turned to give me a blank look and shrugged as he returned his eyes to the road. Then my neck was gripped from behind, with enough pressure to prevent me from struggling.
It was a familiar hold, restricting the blood flow to the brain. Already, street lights and buildings were beginning to tilt and blur. Sensation and awareness were leaving me and I couldn't allow that so I thrust my feet against the floor of the car, trying to force myself upwards. My fingers found a bony hand and wrenched hard: it was like trying to pry open a steel trap.
‘It will be worse if you struggle. You have no chance.’ It was an unconcerned murmur, barely audible. I caught a trace of Parisian accent. ‘I am Guillaume.’
A sort of pride, as if he expected his name to fill me with fear. He probably had a reputation to maintain. I remembered that O’Hare had mentioned him with reverence. Another part of my mind told me that Guillaume had to be a very small man, to have concealed himself in the space between the rear seats.
Everything was losing focus.
I fought, doing what I could to concentrate my strength. He tried to tighten his grip further, perhaps to crush my larynx, but I had a better hold on his wrist now and could force myself hard forward, glad that I hadn’t fastened the seatbelt. My chest struck the dashboard, dragging him most of the way with me. His shoulder must have tilted the rear view mirror, altering the angle so that I could see a wizened face with deep-set eyes. From far away I heard his small squeals of ecstasy, like the pleasure of an excited child.
But consciousness was slipping away fast now, I couldn't inhale. There was no way to loosen his grip and anyway I'd lost him, somewhere among the darkness flooding in. Something important, a reminder or a warning, flashed repeatedly in the tiny area of awareness that remained. I had anticipated this situation, or something like it, and provided for it beforehand. I couldn’t remember how, but I knew I had prepared.
The brain will bypass conscious thought in order to survive in a life-threatening situation, because it is desperately short of time. I have no memory of tearing O’Hare’s tiny pistol free from my leg, nor of the sharp pain as the electrician's tape took the skin. The little gun lay flat in my free hand, and I struggled in the limited space to alter my position and bring it to bear on Guillaume. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of alarm in his eyes, as he was forced to release the pressure on my neck to turn away the gun.
My mind began to clear and somehow I turned, hitting my elbows but pulling him all the way over into the front of the car. We grappled face to face now, and I saw him clearly for the first time. Doubtlessly it was the poor light, but he looked less than human. There was madness there all right, and surprise. Clearly, he wasn’t used to much resistance. He worked in shadows and silence, a creature of the dark killing efficiently and, as he probably thought of it, artistically.
He went for my eyes with his free hand, but I caught it and folded my fingers around his, crushing them and forcing the wrist against the joint. His expression changed, but he took the pain well. I sucked air into my lungs and held him, trying to free my other hand because he had deflected the gun. If I fired now I would miss and he knew it.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ The driver wanted to get this over, so they could dump the body and get out of the area. He would be accustomed to watching a quick kill, and this unexpected delay made him nervous.
I couldn’t force the gun back into position. I was dimly aware of the driver’s agitation, the swish of tyres against the smooth road surface, the laboured inhalation as Guillaume snatched in air.
I watched my aim deteriorate. I was certain that I couldn’t win now: his reserves of strength were inexhaustible. He forced the gun barrel towards me. A shot at this point would be very convenient for him: an apparent suicide might satisfy the police.
I tried to wrench my arm away, slowing him momentarily as he opposed the force. The gun continued to turn. If I fired now the window of the driver’s door would be shattered. Guillaume put on more pressure and the angle changed steadily: the target now was the roof, now the far edge of the windscreen, now the driver’s head.
I pulled the trigger. The recoil was minimum, enough to throw my body against the passenger door. Guillaume released me, instinctively avoiding the blast. The driver lurched forward, his head striking the wheel, blood gushing from a wound above his ear. The taxi veered sharply, striking a street lamp and rebounding with the dead man’s foot still on the accelerator. I got the door open as Guillaume fell heavily against me. It wasn’t another attack, he was propelled by the erratic movement of the vehicle. As the door swung back I threw myself out, my right hand hitting the road first and taking the weight of my body. I let my arm bend, to reduce the impact enough for me to go into a roll. The gutter was full of straw packaging and some sort of vegetable from the nearby markets, and God knows what else. I lay there as the taxi hit the wall of the building opposite, exploding in a plume of flame.
This and the other works of this author are described at arthurhallsbooksite.blogspot.com and are available from Amazon Kindle
