I’d been climbing cliffs and chasing Olympic gold while they were earning green berets and golden tridents. But just because I wasn’t used to people shooting at me, didn’t mean I hadn’t developed combat reflexes. There’s something about hanging 200 meters up by the last knuckle on the left index finger that stimulates growth in the quick-response part of the brain. So by the time Ivan had released the yellow button, I had launched into action. Before she had gone incommunicado, Jo had briefly described the remote controlled garrote with its slider and three buttons. Armed with that information, I’d formulated my plan of attack the moment Ivan had raised the phone. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Having abandoned the ice bucket and glasses in favor of just carrying the Cristal club, I flung it like a lawn dart straight at Ivan’s head. Given the twenty feet between us, I wasn’t expecting a hit but rather a distraction while I covered the gap. Launching myself at his phone with the force and focus of a guided missile, I was absolutely determined that nothing would stop me until I hit green.
