Pressure points fall into three categories. Feel, hurt and release. Royce believed he might have found a new category. He labeled it hell.
But still, hell didn’t accurately describe the pain jolting, rifling through his body.
This was hell on steroids. And death already sounded like a pleasant alternative. The brutal, vicious killer with the deathlock vise grip on the little spot where Royce’s head and neck joined, only smiled as he increased pressure.
It was only seconds away. Royce was fading. He’d run and hid and fought valiantly. But valiant was no match for brutality.
So he faded. He slid under. Went limp. Giving in was his only chance and it was anorexic slim. His head lolled. Eyes drifted up and back and then closed.
The paid killer kept up the pressure for a few more seconds. It was those seconds that Royce needed. Because at the moment, the microscopic abbreviated spec of time the murderer eased and released his grip to move his hand to a spot he could complete the kill, Royce would act.
One chance. And here it came. Now…
Written at 35,000 feet Atlanta to Tulsa.