Stealing the Dragon

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Cape Weathers just wanted to know what time it was before he died. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but it was all he could manage on short notice.

Cape was on his back, looking up at the clock tower as the Russian tried to strangle him. He could feel his larynx start to collapse as the gangster shifted his weight and tightened his grip, all three hundred pounds of him crushing the air from Cape’s lungs.

Broken ribs stabbed as he tried to breathe. His vision started to fade, and Cape knew he’d black out any minute. Then he’d be dead. But he could still see the clock tower jutting upward into the fog, and he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to hear the bells ring one last time.

He also wanted to kill the son of a bitch that was strangling him, but Cape had learned to set realistic goals.

Cape managed to free his right arm and swung frantically, trying to get an angle on the giant’s head. The Russian spat in his face and squeezed harder. Cape heard a wet cracking sound and figured he’d lost another rib. He fought the pain and kept punching, telling himself this would be over soon, one way or another.

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