Page 121 of Every Last Breath

In a blink, he threw a headbutt, rattling her brain, and flipped her onto her back.

She deflected his blows and pivoted her hips forward, kicking him, driving his body further down hers. Grabbing one of his arms, she threw her legs straight up, wrapping them around his neck, and punched his other arm between her thighs. She had his head trapped low by her hips and had his free arm locked in her grip. Using her legs, she applied as much pressure as she could to his neck, shutting off his airway.

A solid triangle choke hold.

All she had to do was squeeze her thighs. Squeeze hard. Keep her grip on his arm. Bring him deeper into the submission hold. Not let go.

His features contorted into something ghoulish. Eyes full of nightmarish determination drilled into her like hot nails. Then everything changed, and her advantage evaporated. So fast but so mind-boggling, it unfolded in slow motion.

The Ghost rose up on his knees, hoisting her entire body from the floor with him. Like a damn machine.

What kind of drug was he on?

Her heart ricocheted. The only thing keeping him from killing her was her grip on his arm and her legs squeezing his throat.

A demented smile broke through his feral snarl.

In some unstoppable wrestler move, he slammed her against the floor. Breath flew from her lips like a popped balloon. Pain and panic crashed through her, sending hope into a tailspin.

Everything in her went slack. Fingers, legs, heart. The world hazed white.

He seized her neck in a stranglehold. She was stunned, lungs straining. He had her hips locked down, but she tried to gain leverage with her legs, her heels scraping the floor. For such a slender man, he was so heavy and strong.

A scathing ache pulsed like an angry heartbeat from her head to her tailbone. Her mind spun, thoughts racing—to Cole. She loved him. Wanted to live—for him. She should’ve told him it didn’t matter what their second chance looked like, as long as they were together.

Calm settled over her. She had to do something. Anything. Like hell she’d let Novak win.

Maddox clawed at his hands, scratched his face. All in vain. The Ghost’s hands squeezed her jugular, dragging her closer to death. Darkness edged her vision.

She groped her jacket for the tube of tear gas. Her pockets were empty.

Where was it? Did it fall out in the struggle?

“I ran and I knew you’d follow,” he said in a hiss of berserk fury. “Knew I’d get you alone. I swore I’d kill you, Kinkade, and I’m a man of my word.”

She extended her fingers and struck at his throat. One of his hands lifted from her, and the pressure eased enough for her to suck in a clipped breath.

His fist pumped into her face with a thick, meaty sound. Her head jacked right. Light bloomed behind her eyes, ears ringing; her teeth tore into her lip and blood filled her mouth.

She was dazed, everything swam, but her fate was clear. And it wasn’t good.

For one brilliant instant, she saw Cole, heard his voice.

Move, honey. Or you’re as good as dead. Move!

Tear gas, she thought again frantically and patted her pants, this time in a frenzied search.

“Not with a knife or a gun. Just my bare hands.” Novak clamped down on her windpipe as he leaned over her into the hold for added power.

There. The tear gas was in her right pocket.

She dug in her jeans, nails nipping the tube and slipping from the metal. With her other hand, she hit at his throat and arms and chest, each blow growing weaker. She was tiring, desperate for air.

The burn in her lungs, the unbearable pressure was too much. His hands tightened around her throat, and it seemed as though her head might burst like a squeezed grape.

“Doesn’t get more intimate than this,” he said, his voice rough, barely human. He drew his face close to hers as if he might bite her. Or, God forbid, kiss her.

Worse, he exceeded her imagination.