Reacher had a rule for that kind of situation. Your enemy gets knocked down, they do not get back up. You finish them, there and then. No mercy. No hesitation. But Hannah’s intervention had slowed him down. Cost him a second. And that was enough for Harold to haul himself the rest of the way up.
Harold’s feet were spread wide. His knuckles were practically brushing the sides of the corridor. His arms and legs were as long as Reacher’s. Maybe longer. Which was a problem. It took away one of Reacher’s regular advantages. In a fight he could normally stay out of harm’s way and still be able to inflict massive damage. But there was no way to hit Harold without the risk of getting hit in return. Of taking some serious punishment. That wasn’t a prospect Reacher was keen on. It would reduce his efficiency. Lower his odds of success.
Harold shifted his stance and squared up like some old-school bruiser. It was like he had read Reacher’s mind. A mean smile spread across his face. His fists were like sledgehammers. Weight was on his side. If he could land one blow it would be game over, and he knew it.
Reacher knew it, too. But he also knew there are times when a needle is more effective than a hammer.
“Careful,” Reacher said. “Don’t let your knuckles drag on the ground.”
Harold’s eyes narrowed.
“They won’t let you in the hospital if you hurt yourself. They’ll send you to a vet. Lock you in a zoo afterward. Or a circus.”
Harold charged forward. He launched an immense right hook. The motion was smooth. Practiced. Reacher had no doubt that if Harold’s fist made contact with his skull the result would be devastating. But he was expecting it. He snapped his body back from the waist. Just far enough. Harold’s fist zipped past his nose. It kept moving. And made contact with the wall. It shattered the surface and smashed through the lattice of wooden slats that supported the plaster. Harold yelled and wrenched back his arm but his hand would not come free. It was stuck like a fish on a barbed hook.
Reacher danced in close and threw a punch of his own. It was vicious. Brutal. It caught Harold right by his ear. It rocked his head to the side. It would have knocked anyone else down. They’d have been unconscious. For a long time. Maybe forever. But Harold shook his head. Spat out some blood. And grinned.
Reacher switched targets. He stamped down on the side of Harold’s knee. Then he drove the heel of his hand into Harold’s captive arm, just above the elbow. The joint bent the wrong way. Bone dislocated. Tendons stretched. Ligaments tore. Harold roared with pain. And anger. He grabbed his trapped forearm with his free hand and twisted and heaved with all his might. The wooden strips gave way. Their jagged ends tore his wrist and palm and the back of his hand. His arm flailed around. It was floppy and out of control. And it was spraying rivers of blood. His nails brushed Reacher’s cheek. One broke his skin.
Harold took a step forward then stopped and howled with pain. His knee was too damaged. It couldn’t take his weight. His right arm was hanging, useless. So he reached around with his left hand and pulled a gun from his waistband.
He started to raise it.
Reacher was already moving. He was running at Harold. Accelerating as fast as he could. But space was restricted. There was little room for maneuver. Reacher figured he had one chance. He needed momentum. He needed focus. So he charged in, leaned forward, and plowed into Harold. His right shoulder drilled into the exact spot Hannah’s bullet had hit. Where he knew Harold’s ribs would be bruised. Where he hoped they would be broken.
Harold crashed down, flat on his back. He dropped the gun. He howled. He thrashed his legs. Flailed his arms. Reacher moved in, looking for a part of Harold to punch. Or kick. Or stomp. Harold kept on squirming and wriggling. He denied Reacher a target. Then he sat up, fast, like he was exercising at the gym. He lunged and wrapped his good arm around Reacher’s thighs. Slid his hand lower and clamped his forearm across the back of Reacher’s knees. He flung himself back down, straining and tugging with all his might.
Reacher’s knees jackknifed. There was nothing he could do to avoid getting pulled down. He knew that. So he didn’t fight gravity. He didn’t resist. Instead he aimed, and planted both knees square in the center of Harold’s chest.
Maybe Harold’s rib cage had been damaged by the gunshot. Maybe it had been weakened by Reacher’s shoulder charge. Maybe he just had porous bones. But whatever the reason, Harold’s sternum collapsed. His lungs were crushed flat. So was his heart. His liver. And a bunch of other organs. His body gave one last spasmodic twitch. His head lolled to the side. And then he was still.