Free Time Was by Steve Perry Page B

all, nothing to it, and he had to do it in the next five seconds.
    Go.
    And think about raising your rates next time.
    The Strangler was strong but the Strangler was shorter than Janus—
    â€”the kid with the gun was getting closer—
    â€”the Strangler was quick but the Strangler was now stationary—
    â€”the kid raised the gun into the firing position, supporting his firing arm with his free hand, a classic shooting-range stance—
    â€” so if you can budge the Strangler, if you can unsettle his balance, if you can do that —
    Janus faked going right—
    â€”and went right.
    The kid whirled left and fired into empty air and the surprise on his face was all that Janus needed; he powered everything he had into completing the next move, and behind him he could feel the Strangler’s strip loosen slightly as the man’s balance momentarily deserted him—
    â€”and with all the power in his great body, Janus hunched forward, pulling the Strangler with him, and when he had his balance, Janus put all of his strength into a shoulder throw, sailing the Strangler helplessly over him and into the too-slow kid.
    The two of them went down hard on the ice, and the kid was stunned as he hit, losing his grip on his weapon, and the gun skidded across the ice. Janus saw it but so did the Strangler, and the Strangler went for it, scrabbling and sliding along the ice like a desperate roach.
    Janus let him.
    His right hand was next to useless, bruised and bleeding from the leather strap, so he merely watched as the Strangler got closer to the gun—
    â€”then Janus kicked the Strangler’s head off—
    â€”or tried to; the Strangler was ready and grabbed Janus’s foot and snapped it around, tripping him—but not before Janus got off one good spiked kick into the Strangler’s shoulder, following it up with a blow from his left hand, but it only grazed the Strangler’s head because even on his knees, even still dazed from the throw, even bleeding from the deep gashes left by Janus’s spikes, the Strangler could still move, and Janus went for another left-hand blow, and again the Strangler spun free; another left-hand barely connected as the Strangler writhed and twisted, and he really was like a roach, a waterbug that you could see and chase but somehow never catch, and both of them went for the gun then, but it was clumsy going, pained going, skidding-on-the-ice going, and when Janus saw that he might not get to the gun first he kicked at it and sent it spinning toward the exit hole and smiled as it teetered on the edge then fell in with a soft plop! The Strangler chopped him on the neck, but Janus faked sideways enough so that the Strangler missed a death spot—but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, didn’t make his nerves shriek, didn’t start his brain to clouding again, which—coupled with his desperate need for heat, for warmth, for drying—served to slow him momentarily, but Janus would not allow that to happen—not for long, anyway— If I cloud, I’m gone, it’s that simple —so he wriggled away from the Strangler’s grip and connected with a spiked kick to the side of the Strangler’s head, ground-zero on a death spot, and when his spiked boot hit, there was a double cry of pain, and who was to say whose was the greater agony, his or the Strangler’s. All Janus could be sure of was that the Strangler’s was over a lot sooner.
    Gasping, cramping, bleeding, Janus managed to get to his feet, then moved past the dead Strangler and finished off the kid quietly before staggering into the drying shed. It was so blessedly warm, so heavenly toasty and welcoming, and he fell onto the pile of blankets he’d left there, wrapping himself in them like a child hesitant to leave its mother’s womb, and then he reached for the thermos of hot tea and sipped it, then gulped it, not caring about the