Full Jake fight

I ducked out from behind a Ford Explorer and walked up beside the van. I watched the driver’s reflection in the big side mirror. He wore a black baseball cap pulled down low over dirty blond hair and sunglasses. Sunglasses in Minnesota in January.

He noticed me just as I reared back my fist and punched a hole through the driver’s side window. Punching through a car window is not easy. Not unless you’ve put in some work on your technique. I had. I grabbed the guy by the throat and yanked his head out the hole my fist had made. I uppercutted him in the chin with my left and his head snapped around and he was out, head lolling down the side of the van.

The first bullet blasted a second hole through the glass. If the window hadn’t spider-webbed when I punched it, the guy in the passenger seat might have got me. As it was, his view was obscured. I ducked and spun and got behind the back wheel. A second bullet came out through the van’s side panel. Low and at an angle. It cut a furrow through the snow six inches from my feet. I chanced a quick glance at Kiira. She was still making her way to the truck. She hadn’t heard a thing. The gun was suppressed. A bad sign. I tried to think but it was happening fast. The scar along my scalp and the hole in my thigh should tell you all you need to know about my skills at dodging bullets. I’m a big target. And I’m not fast. I heard the passenger door open on the far side of the van.

I ducked down and peered beneath it. Snow blocked most of the view, but I saw feet come down and skirt toward the back bumper. Keeping my head as low as my six-ten frame allowed, I grabbed a fistful of snow and ducked around the back end of the van. I made it to the edge of the back bumper and waited for the gun to appear.

When he did, I realised I was dead. The guy was good. He hadn’t edged along the side of the van as I’d hoped. He’d heard me coming and backed away through the calf-deep snow, toward the sidewalk. He side-stepped into view eight feet from me. He held the silenced handgun firmly in a gloved right hand, his left hand bracing his wrist. It was impossible for him to miss. I had nowhere to hide. I threw the snowball underhanded. Flinching is an instinct. It happens automatically. He blinked and dodged his head to the side and took a fractional step back, all to avoid a harmless snowball. He didn’t anticipate the curb beneath the snow. His heel clipped and his eyes went wide and he stumbled and fired and I was on him. I took out my rage and mortal terror on his upturned screaming face.
-Sledge vs. The Labyrinth pg. 34-36