The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 27
As he hit the floor, his head cracked against the ceramic tile, and vertigo rushed up to meet him.
Frantically, he gulped air and blinked his eyes to keep the blackness at bay. The hulking man leapt atop him once more. Beefy hands wrapped anaconda-like about his neck, choking off his air.
He was struck violently and stars exploded across his vision. Death was close---closer than it had ever been in his life.
A mere hairsbreadth separated him from unconsciousness when the steel hands released their grip and the black menace that sat astride him laughed. The wicked sound of it sent chills down his spine.
"You've been poking your fingers in places they don't belong," the disembodied voice said. "I guess I'll have to take them off one at a time."
"Who the hell are you?" he gasped with the precious little air he'd been able to draw into his lungs.
Again came the evil chuckle.
He tried to speak, but was silenced by a blinding white pain inside his skull as he was backhanded again. The black silhouette hovering over him spread like an oil slick, and he felt himself slipping into oblivion.
Through his stupor, he heard the unmistakable snick of a switchblade opening and knew he had to do something now, before it was too late. It was survival instinct that led his fingers to his pocket and the keys within. He scrabbled to free them and thrust upward. He was rewarded by the sickening give of soft flesh and a scream of human agony as the impromptu weapon plunged deep into his attacker's eye. A hot spurt of blood and gelatinous fluid splashed over his hand.
The heavy weight rolled off of him. The damage he'd inflicted had bought him a chance to escape, and he took it. He rolled away and dashed through the door.
As his feet hit the pavement, the ground near his shoes exploded.
Chunks of hot asphalt bit deeply into his flesh. He didn't stop, didn't look back. Instead, he dove for cover behind a low hedge and commando-crawled across the wet grass toward the relative safety of the sidewalk and the busy street.
He took off in a fast sprint. As he fled into the night, he heard an ominous warning called after him. "This isn't over."
JASON pressed himself against the side of a brick building, safely hidden in the shadows of a darkened alley. He panted and rubbed his offended skull, probing the well-developed egg that was hatching into one hell of a headache. Groaning, he choked and spat blood. The abused muscles in his neck protested with each movement.
His mind worked through the scenario. Whoever had violated his home had been well funded. The silencer and the clinical violence were testament to that. This was a professional, not some cheap thug. Brunner had apparently come into some resources since their last encounter.
This seemed an unusually bold move for Brunner. Maybe his style had changed. Maybe it wasn't Brunner he was dealing with at all. He didn't know anymore.
If his quarry was getting antsy, though, the clock was ticking. If it was Brunner, Jason knew firsthand how slippery he could be. It wouldn't be long before he melted into the shadows, becoming impossible to reach.
There was no time for anything but action.
The dire warning This isn't over resurfaced in his consciousness.
Chris.
If he was in danger, Chris might be too. Now that they had sounded the battle cry, time was working against them.
In the aftermath of the assault, he realized the rules had changed.
Under the circumstances, it was far too dangerous for Chris to be left unguarded. A storm could be headed directly for him, and he'd have no idea what was coming or any means to defend against it.
Jason glanced at his watch again. It was a twenty-minute drive to Chris's house, but he couldn't risk going back to his own car. Even as his gut clenched with the fearful realization that Chris might already be dead, he punched numbers into his mobile phone. Each ring brought him closer to dread. Finally, Chris picked up.
"Chris, listen to me. Get out of the house," he commanded without preamble.
"Jason?"
"Grab your keys and get in the car. Go now."
"You're scaring me."
"Good. You should be scared. Damn it, Chris, don't waste time. Move." There were sounds of action on the other end of the line. He heard keys rattling, a door opening and closing, running footsteps, a car engine roaring to life.
"Where am I going?"
"Head toward Safeco Field. And keep your eye out for a tail."
The connection cut out.
Shit.
He stabbed his finger into the Redial button. After several rings, Chris's voicemail picked up.
The five-alarm headache was making him nauseous. Steeling himself against the pain, he crept out of the shadows and ran down First Avenue in the direction of the sports stadium.
As he hurried along, he continued to dial Chris's number. Finally, after the fifth attempt, Chris picked up again. "Are you on your way?"
"Yes. You'd better tell me what's going on."
"Something happened. Hurry."
"What happened? Jason, talk to me."
"I'll explain on the way to the airport."
"The airport?"
"We're getting the hell out of here."
"But I thought---"
"I had a visitor. He made me rethink my position."
"Oh no. Where are you? Are you hurt? I'm calling the police. Jason, this is---"
"I'm fine. We're not calling the police."
"If you've been attacked---"
"Chris, we've set off some kind of shitstorm. If we don't move now, we might never have the chance again."
"But the police---"
"Will tie us up in so much procedure and red tape that Brunner will be long gone before the ink is dry on the paperwork. Where are you?"
"I just got off of the freeway. I'm heading down Fourth Avenue."
Jason continued to run, his eyes watchful. "Anyone tailing you?"
"How the hell should I know? I write restaurant reviews, for crying out loud."
"Make