Page 122 of Nobody's Hero

Onto his fibula.

The pain was worse than anything Koenig had ever felt. He ignored it. Ignored everything but the bone in his hand. He ignored the punches Tas was hammering into his torso, and he ignored the headbutts smashing into his nose and cheekbones. He ignored the bites and hair pulling. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not passing out.

And then Tas understood what Koenig was doing. He saw the danger. Tried to push himself off Koenig. It was futile. Koenig was using his biceps to pull Tas towards him. Tas was using his deltoids to push himself away. Tas was fighting a losing battle. All things being equal, the biceps generate double the amount of force of the deltoid.

Slowly, inevitably, like a knife going into fridge-cold butter, the bone punctured the skin and entered Jakob Tas’s groin.

Koenig kicked with his leg. Made the wound bigger.

Game over.

Chapter 131

Not quite game over.

Tas was a dead man. He knew it. Koenig knew it. The blood was leaving his groin faster than steam out of a kettle. Spewing from his shorts onto the already slippery deck. Tas remained calm. Like getting stabbed in the femoral artery with a fibula was an everyday occurrence. He didn’t even look annoyed.

Instead, he looked at the outboard motor’s tiller.

Koenig hadn’t stopped anything yet. The boat wasstillheaded towards the Hoover Dam. Smerconish wasstillgoing to blow it out of the water. The spent fuel rods werestillgoing to end up at the bottom of the lake. All Tas had to do was reach the outboard motor before he did. If he managed to twist the tiller, give it full throttle, he’d win.

And now the race was on.

Koenig let go of Tas’s shirt and bearhugged him instead. Held on for dear life. Tas punched and he bit and he butted. Koenig hung on, but he knew he couldn’t keep it up. The blood from Tas’s femoral artery was spraying the air like a power shower. It was like fighting in a Jell-O pool. Tas’s face was completely red. The blood rolled down his nose and dripped into Koenig’s open mouth. It tasted coppery. Koenig spat it into Tas’s eyes. Followed it up with another headbutt. Weak. Nothing in it.

Tas grinned. His teeth were pink from where Koenig had busted his lip. Time was on his side. Even if he didn’t manage to reach the tiller, the boat was still chugging along to the Hoover Dam. Smerconish wouldn’t risk it getting within five hundred yards.

Koenig let go and pushed Tas off him as hard as he could. Tas fell backwards. Slid along the blood-soaked deck like he was on ice. Before Tas could get to his feet, Koenig used his arms and began crawling towards the stern. Like a drunk trying to get back into the bar. He’d only made it a yard when his exposed fibula caught on the wooden deck. Dug in like a fishhook. The pain seared into his memory. He knew he’d never forget it. He lifted his leg until he was able to move forwards again.

Koenig raised himself into the half-press-up position. Kept his fibula away from the deck. He thought it might be faster to crawl like a baby. He’d barely made a yard before his hands slipped on Tas’s blood. He fell forwards, just as Tas swung his right foot where his head had been. Tas lost his balance and fell. Like he was Charlie Brown and Lucy had pulled the ball away. And now they were grappling with each other again. Cats in a sack. Trench warfare. Lots of blood; small, incremental gains on both sides. No one winning.

Tas’s eyes fluttered, then closed. He loosened his grip. Blood loss – it did that to you. He should have used a torniquet. Koenig punched him. A weak jab, but it was all he had left. It had the wrong effect. It didn’t finish him off. Woke him up instead. His eyes opened and he started fighting again. Weaker than before, but so was Koenig.

Koenig knew Tas couldn’t beat him. But he didn’t have to. All Tas had to do was not lose. Smerconish’s F-35 was Tas’s MVP right now. And then Tas looked at the sky. He smiled.

He could see the F-35.

Koenig had seconds now.

Tas had all the time in the world.

Koenig had to change that. He stopped fighting and reached down and hooked an index finger into Tas’s wound. He yanked down. Hard as he could. It was like skinning a rabbit. Once it went, it went. Koenig tore Tas’s femoral artery wide open. He fell back on the deck, exhausted. Watched as Tas’s blood left his body like a burst water balloon.

‘Ah, Koenig,’ Tas sighed. ‘You really are one crazy son of a bitch.’

Then he died.

Koenig looked up. The F-35 was almost on him. He couldn’t hear anything. You didn’t with modern fighter jets. Not until they’d passed you and the sound had caught up. He gathered every ounce of energy he had. He pushed himself onto his elbows and slithered across the blood-wet deck.

He reached the stern. Pulled himself up. He grabbed the tiller and twisted it. The boat slowed.

The F-35 screamed over his head. Faster than a bullet. Louder than a banshee. Low enough that Koenig felt the heat of the afterburners.

Koenig laughed. Hysterical. He shouted, ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfu—’

Then everything went dark.

Part Five