Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

again. I sat on the floor and picked up the key, behind my back. I stood up and looked at the three guys.

The one in front was the biggest, and likely the more aggressive. He was grinding his teeth together and it was making a noise. I realized that they were all grinding their teeth, which probably meant that they were on some kind of speed. Amphetamines, the bread and butter of white supremacist gangs. It was weird to see three prison Nazis in the half light, grinding their teeth. The triple mouths glowed coldly in darkened faces.

We were getting closer to the moment of truth and they were nervous, as most people are before a violent encounter. Nervous with good reason, I thought. Behind my back I was unlocking the cuffs, quietly. When I had them off, I kept them behind my back, and put the four fingers of my right hand through the twin steel rings, like a set of brass knuckles. My thumb slid the key into my back pocket. I said “I can’t get them off by myself. I need you to help me do it.”

The guy in front said, “What do we got to do, kill you with kindness?”

I said, “Just get these things off me and I’ll beat you down.”

The guy grinned, his teeth flashing brighter in the dark. He stepped forward, arm extended. “Let me see that.”

Which was exactly what I had been waiting for, some momentum. When a person gets his body into motion, it becomes really hard to change direction, or to adjust for leverage. Motion commits weight transfer, and the guy had committed. That is because one of the effects of crystal meth is to make the user physically over-reactive. The guy hadn’t stepped forward so much as leapt ahead of himself.

Too fast out of the gate, too late.

I stepped out of his line, swiveled back at him and came in at a new angle. The guy tried to adjust his balance, get in the right place, at least to defend himself. He was wide open, like a rabbit caught in headlights. My hand was ringed in steel. My armored fist was pure kinetic energy, and slammed into the side of his head, just to the right of a swastika tattoo on his upper cheek. There was a cracking sound. Either his skull breaking, or the handcuffs clashing. I didn’t care which.

The guy went down.

Another lesson from fight club, no pause, no let up, no delay. Only relentless aggression will save you from being beaten to a pulp by some protein powder-guzzling Navy Seal Green Team warrior. And like a good pool player, you have to always consider the next shot.

The next shot was the next guy in line. This one had a full-on illustration of Adolf Hitler tattooed from belly to neck. Hitler was snarling and holding up his arm in a Sieg-Heil Nazi salute. The guy was reacting defensively, throwing his hands in the air to block a face strike. No real experience. I was already in motion, allowing the strike on the first guy to spin me at the second guy.

I came in fast, got down below his raised arms and punched into his groin with my left elbow, throwing a hell of a lot of energy into him. I felt my elbow sink into soft flesh, stopped only by slamming into his pelvic bone. The guy screamed sharply, in a high-pitched voice. He curled over and jerked back. Hands dropped to protect his bruised genitals, which left his face open to whatever I wanted to do to it. I wanted to cave it in, to destroy it. I twisted as I came up, put my steel-cased fist straight into his mouth. The cuffs punched through his front teeth, which shattered into the back of his throat. He fell back against the wall, choking and coughing.

Two down, one to go.

Looked like the third guy was less of a coward than his friends. He was not panicking, yet. He was right in there, coming at me with his arm cocked back. The fist was coming in, a good shot, aimed straight at my nose. I turned away in time and took the punch on my cheek. The guy followed up with a knee aimed at my chin. It was an acrobatic move, requiring him to push off his left leg, throwing all of his momentum into the knee strike.

Which I blocked, grappling with his leg and taking control of it. He tottered, a look of surprise on his face. I tossed him back. The guy scrambled and lost his balance, slammed into the door. I was up on the balls of my feet. The hatch to the cell door window was open. I could make out a widened eye looking in.

The guy went for the door, he wanted out. I grabbed his belt and held him. I said, “Too late.”

The third guy’s head was shaved on the sides and the back, but long on top, in some kind of Neo-Nazi pony tail. It was like a ready-made handle. I gripped him by the hair and lifted his face so I could see it. The guy was grimacing, mouth in a clenched rictus from the fear and the speed.

He said, “Please.”

I said, “No.”

I smashed his face into the cell door window, right into the frightened eye of the watching guard. The guy slid off, leaving a bloody smear on the glass. But I had not let go of him. I did it again, this time using my full weight and leverage to bash his head against the stainless steel sink. He took the edge on the bridge of his nose, which made a crunching sound as the cartilage was pulverized. Then I did it again, three times more in quick succession. With each hit the sound was more wet, less solid, more like slamming a bag of fleshy bones into a boulder. Then I dropped him, letting the Nazi