The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 71
There was no other way.
If he could somehow make it to the boathouse, he might get away.
George kept the keys to the boat inside a jar---or he used to, anyway.
Taking a series of deep breaths, he fought against his uncertainty.
At any point, his hastily constructed escape plan could fall apart. He was acting on instinct. Every impulse was tuned to survival. He wasn't equipped for this kind of action, but he didn't have a choice. He and Brianna were in terrible danger, and if he didn't act, didn't try, they would die. He looked at his daughter. She gazed back at him with wide, trusting eyes, and his will solidified.
Resolved, he kicked out the grate.
Chapter 19
BRUNNER slumped in the chair, sobbing and wheezing. His face was damaged almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were swollen nearly closed. Blood drooled out of his ruined mouth and ran in a thick red river down his chin to drip into his lap. The fingers of his left hand were all broken, the digits splayed in haphazard, unnatural positions.
George stared at him in satisfaction. Brunner was barely hanging on. "That's good," he praised Watson. He'd very much enjoyed watching the treacherous weasel being beaten to a bloody pulp. George was vaguely disappointed that Brunner hadn't even tried to fight back. It was as though he had realized the futility of struggle and had already resigned himself to his fate.
George covered his hand with a handkerchief and withdrew a handgun from the drawer of his desk. This he handed over to Watson, careful not to touch it in any way as he did so. "You know what to do," he said. If he could have avoided this bit of business, he certainly would have, but wounded, he would prove a much more convincing victim.
George gritted his teeth, braced himself against the desk, and nodded at Watson. Watson reached down. He lifted Brunner's limp hand---the one that was not mangled beyond repair---out of his lap and positioned the gun within his grip.
Lifting Brunner's flaccid arm, he leveled the gun at George.
Brunner screamed.
In a sudden onslaught of fists and violence, he exploded from the chair. Watson was pitched backward, and George gaped in surprise.
Clever. George watched in hypnotized horror as the barrel of the weapon tracked toward him. Not broken after all. Very clever.
He dove out of the way as the gun discharged, the bullet tearing plaster and wood out of the wall inches from where he'd been standing.
Watson, only momentarily unbalanced, launched himself into Brunner's back, and they went down in a snarling, writhing tangle of limbs.
The gun flew out of Brunner's hand and spun lazy, skittering circles across the polished hardwood.
George scampered under the desk as the combatants wrestled on the floor, making a terrific racket. Though he had confidence in Watson, for the first time, he was afraid.
JASON was on his feet the instant he heard the unmistakable report of gunfire. Frank tried to stop him, but Jason threw him off. He took off on a dead run toward the house. Frank shouted at him, ordering him to stop, but he kept on running.
The support team was still en route, the Langley police were somewhere close by, but time was up. To hell with the rules. The gunshot changed everything.
Though his heart was racing and his stomach clenched in fear, Jason forced himself to remain calm and detached. He could hear Frank in pursuit, but the older man couldn't begin to keep pace. As he closed the distance to the house, he donned his training like a well-worn glove, his every movement practiced and made with confidence.
Anxiety filled him, yet his mind crystallized, focused on the path ahead. Every detail sprang into sharp relief. It was as if he had been imbued with preternatural vision and superhuman grace.
Adrenaline. He reached the porch and took the steps by twos.
The door was locked, barring the way forward. Frank was still on the lawn, but he would be on him in seconds.
Jason braced himself and kicked down the door.
CHRIS yelped when the gunshot rang out directly below where he had been making his way carefully around the eaves. Startled by the deafening crack, Brianna screwed up her face to cry. Chris covered her mouth and whispered soothing words into her ear. Her fear subsided. His increased.
Quickly, he scampered across the roof to the overhanging branches of the ancient black walnut, placed his foot firmly upon a stout limb, and inched forward, testing its strength. Satisfied it would hold them, keeping Brianna cradled protectively close, he balanced precariously and moved further out onto the limb. He wobbled uncertainly, nearly losing his balance. Crouching down and holding onto the limb with his free hand to stabilize himself, he pressed on, headed slowly toward the massive trunk.
Once he reached it, he swung around and scrambled down through the tangle of limbs. He was cautious with his footing despite the urgent need for haste, supremely aware of the fragile, precious burden he bore.
He could hear the sounds of a violent struggle within the house and pounding on the back entrance. He couldn't guess what was happening, but he couldn't think beyond reaching the next branch and the next. He had to get to that boat, to get the hell away from this horrible place. He knew with absolute certainty that if he didn't, he and Brianna would die.
OVER the racket of Brunner and Watson's struggle, George could just make out sounds of forced entry at the back of his home. That could only mean one thing. The game was up. Somehow, Kingsley had discovered he was behind everything and had rallied the cavalry. Damn. He thought he had detected a faint note of mistrust when he had spoken to him on the phone. He'd thought he'd been convincing