The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

had snatched before they left and the Tree. Turner’s one advantage was that Moloch wanted him alive. He needed the key. The general could shoot him to disable him, but he couldn’t kill him. Turner needed nothing other than the book from Moloch.

The general stood twenty feet from Turner. Seven strides. The professor eyed the general’s pistol. This model carried ten rounds. Moloch would have ten shots to put Turner down. Ten shots in seven steps. The vest would protect his midsection, but his extremities were exposed. If the general caught a leg or an arm, he would be vulnerable.

Dodging bullets would be the easy part, though. Once Turner reached the general, it would be hand-to-hand. Hand-to-hand with someone skilled in fighting and with some knowledge of the Tree, and ten years younger.

One branch at a time, thought Turner.

“I’m going to give you until the count of three to give me the key to this book. One . . .”

Turner visualized the future. The general was right-handed and a skilled marksman. The first shot would be to Turner’s upper thigh. Enough to drop him, but not enough to prevent him from giving up the key. In this moment, the general’s accuracy worked against him. Turner knew exactly where the bullet would be.

“Two . . .”

Once he avoided the first shot, Turner estimated he would be able to take two steps toward the general while the man recovered from the shock of missing. The general wore his dress uniform, so he would be a step slow.

“Three.”

Turner watched Moloch’s eyes narrow and saw him focus on his target. Time slowed to a trickle under Turner’s focus. Just before the general squeezed the trigger, Turner pivoted his body sideways and shuffled forward like he was squeezing in between two tables in an overcrowded restaurant. The discharge of Moloch’s gun reverberated through the cavernous room, and Turner heard the bullet skitter by him as he took two long strides forward, accelerating with each step.

Five more.

Moloch paused for a moment, temporarily stunned by the professor’s nimbleness. He had miscalculated. He stepped back as the professor stepped toward him, steadying his aim on the target.

Turner watched the barrel of the gun tracking him like prey.

This shot would be at the midsection. He needs a bigger target. Now!

As the general squeezed the trigger, Turner dropped into a baseball slide. He groaned in pain as his arthritic hip slammed against the tile. One, two, three quick shots buzzed by his head.

Three more.

He rose from his slide and resumed his approach like a baseball runner turning for home, and Turner’s eyes met Moloch’s. The general’s cockiness had morphed into confused desperation. He could see the general running his game tree back in his mind wondering where he had gone wrong, how he could correct. He would go for the head this time. The book’s cipher be damned.

Turner watched the general’s pistol rise two inches toward his head and lunged forward into Moloch’s body. Bullets pinged and ponged off the walls of the room. The two men tumbled to the ground, sending the journal to the floor and the general’s pistol off the edge of the walking bridge.

The professor shuffled to his feet. His hip and shoulder throbbed from the impact of the floor and Moloch. His lungs swelled like they’d been shot full of fluid. He had underestimated the effects of his age. He eyed the exits and felt his hip. The hip was almost certainly fractured, and the exits were too far away. It was him or Moloch. No other way.

Turner watched the general rise, and from one look, it was clear he had made the same calculation. The general assumed a fighting pose and took two controlled steps toward Turner.

The punches are coming.

Turner eyed Moloch’s pose. His left foot was forward and his right hand back.

The first punch will come from the right.

Turner struck the same pose to convey the same intention to Moloch. A feint.

I’m old. He’ll expect me to lead with my right hand. He won’t expect me to kick.

But Moloch knew better. The general threw a swift jab with his left hand at Turner’s nose. Turner heard what sounded like the snapping of a twig and stumbled backward. Blood poured from his nose, and a sickening, metallic taste filled his mouth. He was now five feet from the edge of the bridge. He would need to adjust quickly.

Moloch sensed his advantage and attacked. His eyes widened, and he reared back on his haunches.

Here comes the right.

The general launched a fierce right-handed uppercut at Turner. The professor calmly limped aside, took one step forward, and slammed both hands on the general’s ears. Moloch growled in pain and dropped to his knees. Turner saw the opening and unleashed a fierce kick toward Moloch’s head with his right leg. As Turner pivoted, his fractured hip gave way.

Moloch grabbed the professor’s leg in midair and spun him to the ground. Turner fell face-first to the floor, his right check smashing on the cold white tile. His eye blurred, and he could feel the pressure steadily crushing his vision. Blood dropped on the tile like paint on a canvas. He crawled up to his knees. He was now at the edge of the walkway, staring twenty feet down into the abyss. Nowhere to go.

As Turner tried to visualize the next branch of the tree, Moloch’s arm circled his neck, choking the fuel to his mind. Turner clawed at Moloch’s arm. The smell of stale smoke thickened the choking sensation. Turner felt Moloch slide his other arm behind his neck, creating a vise compressing against his carotid artery. Ten seconds and he’d be gone.

His brain was starved for oxygen. He should have panicked, but instead, Turner found serenity. All the branches of the Tree faded away, and one choice stood out to him. Glowing like the final leaf on the tree of life.

Turner slowed his heart rate, stopped clawing at Moloch, put his hands to his side, and drew one last breath. The general