top story, I quickly take stock of the situation. Loud chopping and billowing dust, both the results of a helicopter’s rotor blades, mean our ride has arrived. But Allenby and her pursuer are nowhere in sight.
I discard the bat, slip one blade beneath my belt, pop the second sideways in my mouth, and leap onto the ladder like a pirate boarding a merchant’s vessel. I bound up the rungs, jump the wall at the top, and take in the scene. Allenby is on the tar-paper roof, crawling away from her attacker, a spindly man with a pipe. I don’t think she’s been struck yet, but the man is just seconds from delivering his first blow. Beyond them is the helicopter, a black number with no identifying marks, hovering a few feet above the roof. Blair sits inside looking paralyzed with fear. I see no weapons, meaning I’m the only hope Allenby has.
As I climb over the roof’s short wall, I shout, “Hey!” but the man doesn’t turn. He’s locked on target.
I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It’s a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it’s not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.
The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she’ll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn’t see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.
The pipe descends.
The butt of the knife strikes the man’s right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby’s arms.
Except it doesn’t.
She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man’s knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn’t deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.
My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There’s a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man’s spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he’s not moving anything below the neck.
I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. “I knew you were military.”
She turns for the chopper. “Once upon a time.”
“Better hurry,” I say, pushing her along. “The next person has a gun.”
The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.
The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It’s Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I’ve never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.
Molotov cocktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.
“Hard to believe,” Allenby says.
Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It’s 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation’s quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don’t remember visiting be so familiar, and why the hell do I know so much about New Hampshire?
7.
The helicopter races
I discard the bat, slip one blade beneath my belt, pop the second sideways in my mouth, and leap onto the ladder like a pirate boarding a merchant’s vessel. I bound up the rungs, jump the wall at the top, and take in the scene. Allenby is on the tar-paper roof, crawling away from her attacker, a spindly man with a pipe. I don’t think she’s been struck yet, but the man is just seconds from delivering his first blow. Beyond them is the helicopter, a black number with no identifying marks, hovering a few feet above the roof. Blair sits inside looking paralyzed with fear. I see no weapons, meaning I’m the only hope Allenby has.
As I climb over the roof’s short wall, I shout, “Hey!” but the man doesn’t turn. He’s locked on target.
I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It’s a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it’s not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.
The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she’ll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn’t see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.
The pipe descends.
The butt of the knife strikes the man’s right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby’s arms.
Except it doesn’t.
She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man’s knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn’t deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.
My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There’s a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man’s spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he’s not moving anything below the neck.
I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. “I knew you were military.”
She turns for the chopper. “Once upon a time.”
“Better hurry,” I say, pushing her along. “The next person has a gun.”
The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.
The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It’s Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I’ve never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.
Molotov cocktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.
“Hard to believe,” Allenby says.
Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It’s 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation’s quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don’t remember visiting be so familiar, and why the hell do I know so much about New Hampshire?
7.
The helicopter races
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