第190页

　　The  Brute  tackled  John,  knocking  his  weapon  from  his  grasp.
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　　Even  with  his  MJOLNIR  armor,  John  was  not  as  strong  as  the  alien.
　　It  pounded  on  him  with  bare  fists—broke  through  his  shield?ing,  grabbed  his  neck,  and  squeezed.
　　Red  flashes  played  across  John's  vision.  He  began  to  black  out.
　　CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR
　　1751  hours,  September  13,2552  (revised  date,  Military  Calendar)\Aboard  Covenant  battle  station  Unyielding  Hierophant.
　　John  struggled  and  tried  to  pry  the  hands  from  his  throat.  The  tendons  in  the  Brute's  forearms  were  solid  bands  of  steel—and  the  creature  was  so  determined  to  rip  John's  head  off  that  a  full  clip  from  a  rifle  into  its  chest  hadn't  even  slowed  it  down.
　　Behind  him,  John  felt  another  explosion  thunder  though  the  stone  floor,  followed  by  the  staccato  rattle  of  rifle  fire.
　　Blue  Team  was  busy  with  another  threat.  He  was  on  his  own.
　　John  blinked.  The  darkness  dimming  the  edge  of  his  vision  wouldn't  clear.
　　John  watched  his  shield  bar  flicker  and  sluggishly  recharge.  If  it  built  up  enough  repulsive  force,  he  might  have  a  chance  to  wriggle  out  of  the  Brute's  grasp.  If  he  tried  too  quickly,  though,  the  Brute  wouldn't  lose  its  grip  and  could  pound  his  shield  flat  again.
　　The  Brute  bellowed,  and  globules  of  spittle  spattered  onto  the  Chief's  visor.  It  leaned  closer,  screwing  its  massive  hands  tighter  around  his  throat.
　　John's  vision  narrowed.  His  windpipe  swelled,  and  he  gagged.
　　Shields  were  at  one  quarter  charge.  It'd  have  to  be  enough.
　　John  had  been  in  similar  death-grip  holds  before—endless  hours  of  training  on  the  wrestling  mats  with  his  teammates  and  martial  arts  specialists  provided  by  Chief  Mendez.  There  were  ways  to  escape  a  larger,  stronger  opponent.  And  there  were  al?ways  countermoves  to  those  escapes.  And  countermoves  to  those  counters.  It  was  like  a  game  of  chess,  except  the  pieces  were  arms
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　　and  legs,  torque  and  your  center  of  mass  ...  and  most  impor?tantly  your  mind.
　　He  pulled  his  knees  to  his  chest,  and  tucked  his  torso  toward  his  pelvis  at  the  same  time.  He  twisted  ninety  degrees  and  shot  out  both  legs  and  arms,  and  uncoiled  his  body.  The  maneuver  was  called  "shrimping."
　　John's  head  slipped  from  the  Brute's  grasp.
　　He  used  the  monster's  split  second  of  disorientation  to  scram?ble  onto  its  back.  John  brought  his  elbow  down  on  the  base  of  the  Brute's  neck.  He  swept  out  its  elbow,  wrenched  the  joint  around,  and  pushed  it  as  far  as  it  would  go—far  past  the  point  any  hu?man's  or  Elite's  would  have  snapped.  John  scissored  his  legs  wide  and  pushed  against  the  floor,  leveraging  his  body  to  keep  the  Brute  pinned.
　　It  growled  and  pushed  itself  and  John  up  with  its  one  free  arm.
　　"No.  You.  Don't."
　　John  still  clutched  a  frag  grenade  in  his  left  hand.  He  flicked  the  arming  pin—reached  around  and  under,  and  thrust  it  into  the  Brute's  belt—then  withdrew,  sweeping  out  its  one  arm  holding  them  up.
　　The  Brute  dropped  onto  the  floor  and  screamed  with  rage.
　　The  grenade  detonated.  It  lifted  them  both  a  meter,  and  they  landed  again  ...  this  time  accompanied  by  a  wet,  pulpy  smack  as  the  Brute's  dead  hulk  slammed  into  the  ground.