by Michael Dymmoch
Sometimes when you're supposed to be working on something else, you get these flashes of inspiration that have no connection to anything.
And sometimes, when it's your turn to blog, you haven't a clue what to write about.
So I've got this story fragment and I'm open to suggestions...
He grabbed me at the top of the stairs.
“Don't move or I'll break your fuckin' neck!"
He was massive as two of me and he had me in a full nelson. So I stayed perfectly still until the SWAT guy came through the door.
I used the distraction to cross my wrists and press them against my forehead. I let my weight sag downward.
My assailant didn’t notice. He said, “Drop the gun or I’ll snap her neck.”
The SWAT guy froze. Ready.
When I raised my arms and let my legs go out from under me, the bad guy couldn’t hold me. He wasn’t ready.
But the SWAT guy was. He surged forward.
I rolled on my side. I hooked one foot behind my attacker’s heel, drove the other at his kneecap. He screamed and fell toward the stairs.
Momentum carried him down, heels over shattered knee.
I rolled to the landing’s edge, saw him hit the floor below.
He didn’t move.
The SWAT guy relaxed, his expression priceless as he wrestled his attention back to me. “You okay?”
In times of crisis what would we do without clichés?
I nodded. “I heard him tell someone this place is full of bombs. On the phone.”
“Then we’ better get out.” He lowered his gun and crept down to feel the assassin for a pulse. A formality. The angle of the dead guy’s head said it all.
“We’d better get out of here,” SWAT guy repeated.