Page 22 of Touchdown
Such moments were never destined to last long. He'd be delayed only a beat or two while he figured out what he was seeing and that it meant bullshit. Then he'd move on.
Take your shot. Now.
The mist wasn't as miserable as pounding rain would be, but I was still straining my eyes to make out details that simply weren't there. The swinging light reflected off the sheet and back onto the light's user—but not enough to give me much.
How was he carrying that light? How large was it? A guy had options.
He might wear it as headgear on his forehead to keep both hands free to operate his weapon. Or the light itself might be a weapon—one of those heavy-duty flashlights the more hands-on goon could use to dole out traumatic brain injuries.
The mist started to drizzle again. I blinked harder.
Headgear.
Had I really seen that for sure? Or was I seeing what I hoped to see?
Noah handed me my missile—a twenty-four-ounce can of peaches in heavy syrup. A pound and a half of mass in a cold aluminum shell.
A football weighs less than a pound and offers a considerably more aerodynamic shape.
But a football didn't do much damage when it hit you.
Take the fucking shot. This guy ain't standing here shaking off his dick forever.
A fifty-fifty shot at being wrong was still a better shot than missing my chance to take aim at a stationary target.
Aim for the head.
If it is his head.
Chapter 15
Men have been throwing things to take down their prey for a hundred thousand years. Longer. Millions of years, for all I know.
If a caveman could take down a cave bear with a piece of pointed rock tied to a stick, I could take down this incautious ass who painted a target on his own head with his own bouncing light.
Go fucking team.
In football, a lot of energy goes into misdirection. Feint here if you intend to throw over there. Wet and miserable as my situation was—squatting naked in a tree with no better grenade than a can of peaches—at least, I didn't have to expend any energy on messing with my opponent's mind.
I could look directly at my target—or as directly as the drizzle and the dark would allow—and take aim without the need for any fakery. The unfamiliar weight, the unfamiliar shape, yeah, yeah, all that should have been a handicap. But I had a lot of time and practice at calculating, adjusting, taking my shots.
Not on the conscious level, maybe. Not on the physics-whiz level of calculus and numbers.
On that ancient level where muscle memory meets physical instinct.
When I let fly, the spin I put on that can of peaches was a thing of beauty. No, I couldn't see it, but I could sure feel it. Oh, fuck yeah.
Sometimes, you throw and you just know.
Thump.
The light I'd aimed for went out instantly. Next to me, Noah finally took a breath.
In the dark and sudden silence, my doubt poured back.
Had I dropped the target with a headshot?
Or had I missed him entirely? Had the sound of my missile triggered him to hit the off switch?
