Chapter 11 - The Counter-Strike
With a sudden, desperate cry, Maya threw the heavy rock not at Vance, but at the dry birch thicket fifteen feet to his left.
The rock crashed through the brittle branches with a loud, violent THWACK, sending a shower of dried leaves rattling to the ground.
Instinct took over. Vance spun toward the noise, his weapon instantly tracking the movement, the green laser sweeping across the thicket.
Pfft! Pfft!
He fired two rounds into the dark brush before realizing it was a decoy.
In that fraction of a second, Maya didn't run away. She did the last thing Vance expected a terrified twenty-year-old girl to do.
She launched herself out of the mud directly at his legs.
She slammed her shoulder into the back of his left knee. Vance, caught off balance on the slick mud of the creek slope, let out a grunt of surprise as his leg buckled beneath him. He crashed down hard onto his back, his head striking a exposed granite rock with a sickening, heavy thud.
The night-vision goggles flew off his face, skittering across the gravel. The suppressed pistol slipped from his fingers, plunging into the dark, murky water of a nearby puddle.
Maya didn't pause to celebrate. She scrambled onto his chest, her hands wildly reaching for anything she could use as a weapon.
Vance, despite the blinding pain in his skull, reacted with terrifying speed. His large, calloused hand shot up, wrapping around Maya’s throat like an iron collar. His thumb pressed hard against her carotid artery, instantly cutting off the blood flow to her brain.
Black spots danced across Maya’s vision. The forest began to spin, dimming into a grey fog.
"Fucking... bitch," Vance growled, his face twisted in rage as he squeezed her neck, his other hand reaching into his belt for a combat knife.
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Maya gasped, her fingers clawing at his hand, her nails ripping into his wrist, but his grip was absolute. Her vision narrowed down to a tiny, pinhole point of light.
Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over the creek bed.
