The Devil's Breath by David Gilman Read Free Book Online

himself just enough leverage, then slammed his heel down, as hard as he could, on the man’s ankle. It was one of the most painful self-defense tricks he had learned. Mr. Hollywood shouted out in pain and dropped his chin in disbelief as Max whipped his head back up, connecting with theperfect jawline. He heard the teeth shatter and a mumbled, agonizing choking sound. Max knew the man had probably bitten his tongue half through. The shock and pain weren’t enough to stop him though, and he lurched at Max, who rammed a shoulder with all his strength beneath the gasping man’s rib cage, as if he were tackling a rugby opponent. It rocked Mr. Hollywood back on his heels, the momentum forcing his legs against an overweight suitcase; he lost his balance and tumbled helplessly backwards towards the stainless-steel rim of the chute that moments earlier had flipped Max over. It sliced into the base of the man’s skull. Blood oozed around his T-shirt and his eyes rolled back into his head. Air bubbled through what was left of his smashed mouth. He wasn’t very handsome anymore.
    Max pulled his backpack over his shoulders and ran down through the loading bays. Where was everyone? This must be a cargo and luggage holding area, so no one would be here unless they were loading. He had been lucky so far, he knew that. Where was Scarface? He heard an engine grunt behind him, and as he turned a forklift truck accelerated straight at him. Scarface had the pedal to the floor, diesel fumes spewed out and the two metal loading shafts were rising to chest level as Scarface operated the hydraulic lever. He meant to skewer Max like a kebab. Max spun around and ran—but there was nowhere to go. He was in an alleyway of cargo. Crates and boxes were stacked high on each side and pallets supported all kinds of material. Industrial generators were housed next to domestic refrigerators; construction pipes and electric cabling shared a stack withcrated household goods. Max ran as hard as he could, but there were only forty meters left and then Scarface would crush him against the end-of-alley shelving.
    Max looked around desperately. Was there a chance he could climb up and pull something heavy down onto Scarface? That wouldn’t work; the forklift had a protective cage over the driver. Then he realized what he had to do—his only chance. He turned and faced the beast of a machine, now only a few meters away. He couldn’t dodge to one side, Scarface would twitch the wheel and crush him against the metal shelving. He stood his ground, like a matador waiting for the charging bull. Scarface was momentarily perplexed, but didn’t care. The two giant blades of the forklift’s arms were now at chest height. Max made a grab for them, barely hanging on as the well-worn metal slipped under his grip. If he couldn’t climb up, he would go under the wheels. Like a gymnast on parallel bars, he swung his lower body and hooked his leg over one of the shafts.
    Max straddled the blade and hung on, his body almost within touching distance of Scarface. He sat as square as he could, staring down Scarface, who had not taken his eyes off him. The beard parted—a grin of victory. He would smash Max into the end shelving. Max glared at him. He was drawing on his last strength and energy, and he had to keep this sociopath’s attention focused. Max swore and shouted, and then spat as much spittle as he could manage out of his dry mouth. Scarface stopped smiling. The urge to kill Max was foremost in his mind, and impact was imminent.
    Then, suddenly, Max swung under the metal shaft, clinging on with his arms and legs. In that moment Scarfacerealized that Max’s body had been blocking his view. He threw an arm up in self-defense, but it was too late. The forklift slammed into the end shelving. A hundred lengths of copper tubing that had been stacked there now reacted to the impact and rocketed forward above Max’s arms and legs and into the unprotected Scarface. A dozen