Otto came at me from near the back door. He still held the gun. I could rush him, I guess, but he’d be expecting that. I considered trying to open the side door and roll out, take my chances with this van moving more than sixty miles per hour on a highway. But the door locks were down. I’d never get one open in time.
Otto finally spoke: “Grab the bar next to the cuff with your left hand. Use all your fingers to hold on.”
I got why. I’d have one hand occupied. Only one to watch. Not that it would matter. It would take him a mere second to snap the cuff into place, and then, well, game over. I gripped the bar—and an idea came to me.
It was a long shot, maybe even an impossibility, but once the cuff snapped down and I was locked into place and Otto went to work on me with his little toolbox . . .
I had no choice.
Otto was prepared for me to rush at him. What he wasn’t prepared for was my going in the other direction.
I tried to relax. Timing was everything here. I was tall. Without that, I didn’t have a chance. I was also counting on the fact that Otto wouldn’t want to shoot me, that they truly did want me—as Bob had implied with his threat about shooting students instead of me—alive.
I would have a second. Less. Tenths of a second maybe.
Otto reached toward the cuff. When his fingers found it, I made my move.
Using the hand gripping the bar for leverage, I swung my legs up—but not to kick Otto. That would be pointless and expected. Instead, I pushed off, making my long body horizontal. I wasn’t exactly flying across the van like some veteran martial artist, but with my height and all those damn core exercises I’d been doing, I was able to snap my leg around like a whip.
I aimed the heel of my shoe for the side of Bob’s head.
Otto reacted fast. At the exact moment my heel hit pay dirt, Otto tackled me in midair, dropping me hard to the ground. He grabbed me around the neck and started to squeeze.
But he was too late.
My kick had landed on Bob’s skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob’s hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me—and the gun—into a rolling heap.
It was on.
Otto still had his arm around my neck, but without the gun, it was just man against man. He was a good, experienced fighter. I was a good, experienced fighter. He was probably six feet tall and 180 pounds. I’m nearly six-six and weigh 230.
Advantage: Me.
I smashed him hard against the back of the van. His grip on my neck loosened. I smashed him again. He let go. My eyes searched the van floor for the gun.
I couldn’t see it.
The van was still veering right, then left, as Bob tried to regain control.
I stumbled forward, landing on my knees. I heard a skittering noise, and there, in the corner in front of me, I saw the gun. I crawled toward it, but Otto grabbed me by the leg and pulled me back. We had a brief tug-of-war, me trying to get closer to the gun, him pulling me back. I tried to stomp on his face, but I missed.
Then Otto lowered his head and bit hard into my leg.
I let out a howl of pain.
He held on to the meaty part of my calf by the teeth. Panicked, I kicked out harder. He held on. The pain was making my vision grow cloudy again. The van mercifully swerved again. Otto flew to the right. I rolled to the left. He landed near the tool chest. His fingers disappeared inside of it.
Where the hell was that gun?
I couldn’t find it.
From the front, Bob said, “Give up now and we won’t hurt more students.”
But I wasn’t listening to that crap. I looked left and right. No sign of the gun.
Otto pulled his hand back into view. He had the box cutter now. He hit the button with his thumb. The blade popped out.
Suddenly my size advantage was irrelevant.
He started toward me, leading with the sharp edge. I was cornered and trapped. No sign of the gun. No real chance of jumping him without getting sliced up good. That left me with only one option.
When in doubt, go with what has already worked.
I turned and punched Bob in the back of the head.
Once again the van swerved, sending both Otto and me airborne. When I landed, I saw an opening. I lowered my head and dived at him. Otto still had the box cutter. He lashed out at me, but I grabbed his wrist. Once again I tried to use my weight advantage.
Up front, Bob was having a tougher time controlling the car.
Otto and I started rolling. I kept one hand on his wrist. I wrapped my legs around his body. I jammed my free forearm into the crook of Otto’s neck, trying to get at his windpipe. He lowered his chin to block. Still I had my forearm against his neck. If I could just worm my arm in a little deeper . . .
That was when it happened.
Bob slammed on the brakes. The van stopped short. The momentum lifted Otto and me into the air and sent us crashing hard against the floor. The thing was, my forearm stayed pinned against his throat throughout. Think about it. My weight plus the velocity of the car and the sudden stop—it all turned my forearm into a pile driver.
