Page 63 of Cold Target

Reacher lunged.

His shoulder caught the man in the chest before the gun cleared leather. The impact drove them both backward into the plow blade. Metal rang like a bell. The gun clattered across the concrete, spinning away into the shadows.

The man was fast. He brought his knee up, aiming for Reacher's groin. Reacher twisted, took it on his thigh instead. The blow sent a jolt of pain up his leg but he stayed on his feet.

He drove his own knee up, hard and fast, into the man's groin. Once. The man grunted and folded slightly. Reacher did it again, harder. Felt the man's body go rigid with pain.

Reacher twisted, dragging his bound wrists down and around, and brought both elbows back in a single hammering blow. He caught the man in the throat. Cartilage collapsed with a wet crunch. The man made a gargling sound and slid down the plow blade to the floor, his hands clutching at his ruined throat.

The third man was moving now.

Fast.

He came from the side, from the salt pile, and he had something in his hand.

A wrench. Two feet long. Heavy steel. The kind used for tightening plow blade bolts.

Reacher saw it coming but couldn't get out of the way in time.

The wrench caught him in the ribs, just below his left arm.

The impact was enormous. A freight train of force concentrated into a few square inches of steel. Reacher felt ribs crack—at least two, maybe three. The pain was instant and total, a white-hot explosion that drove the air out of his lungs and sent him staggering sideways.

He tried to stay on his feet. Failed.

He went down on one knee, his vision swimming, his chest screaming.

The man swung again.

This time Reacher saw it coming and threw himself to the side. The wrench whistled past his head and slammed into the concrete with a ringing clang that echoed through the depot.

Reacher rolled, came up on his knees, and drove his shoulder into the man's legs.

They went down together into the salt pile.

The salt was coarse and sharp, like broken glass. It scraped Reacher's face, got into his eyes, his mouth. He couldn't see.Couldn't breathe right. His ribs were on fire, each breath a fresh agony.

The man was on top of him now, trying to get the wrench into position for another swing.

Reacher bucked, twisted, and brought his bound hands up and over the man's head from behind. He locked his wrists against the man's throat and pulled back with everything he had.

The man gagged, dropped the wrench, and clawed at Reacher's arms.

Reacher pulled harder. His shoulders screamed. His wrists were slick with blood where the zip ties had cut through skin. But he didn't let go.

The man thrashed, his boots kicking up salt, his body convulsing.

Reacher held on.

The man's movements slowed. Weakened. Stopped.

Reacher held on for another ten seconds to be sure.

Then he let go and rolled off, gasping, his chest heaving, each breath sending fresh spikes of agony through his broken ribs.

He lay there for a moment, staring up at the fluorescent lights, trying to remember how to breathe without screaming.

The wrench.