Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

I took five steps to the left and shoved out and toward the right, fighting to keep from spinning. I hit the wall about ten inches shy of my target, jolting Max’s body and feeling my arm tear in several places. That one got a grunt from me. I swung back and forth until I was back in my original position.

I wanted to rest, but couldn’t afford to. Every second suspended there stole my quickly depleting energy, and the pain from Max was becoming too much to bear. I got my feet up under me again and walked out as far as the rope would allow, then pushed out and away. For an instant I thought I was going to miss again, but one foot smashed through the window and I hooked it hard, holding us in place. The other foot shoved against the wall a final time and I swung in a tight circle, my butt smashing out the rest of the glass. I let loose the rope and I fell in a heap on an old couch and end table that somehow managed to hold my weight without collapsing. Max, of course, landed on all fours and stood there like he’d just gotten back from a casual stroll.

Blood soaked my sleeve and I couldn’t move the fingers of that hand. The pain screamed something fierce, but we were alive. Max was alive. And that was all that mattered. I reached out with my good hand and gave his head a rub. His body tensed, but he allowed it. Baby steps? Maybe more?

I found the bathroom and threw up in the toilet, a combination of exertion, adrenal dump, smoke inhalation and pure pain. Looking in the mirror I was a mess. Blood caked my face and soot and sweat reamed my nostrils and forehead and cheeks.

The apartment was empty and I realized they all would be, due to being evacuated because of the fire next door. The buildings were packed close in the projects and the chance that the fire might spread was highly plausible.

I had to find Jerome.

Opening the door, I saw him entering the nearest stairwell door. He didn’t look a lot better than I did, but at least he could use both arms. For just a second, I thought he might actually be happy to see me, but then his face took on his usual blank expression.

“We need to go,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Yeah.”

As I stepped into the hallway, I saw a monstrous shadow loom up behind Jerome from the stairwell. It was Owen, Clyde’s ugly cousin. He swung down with a pistol and nailed Jerome on the back of the head. I could hear the crack over all the racket outside and my first thought was that the blow must have split Jerome’s skull like an egg shell. Jerome staggered about three steps into the hallway, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he turned and faced Owen with a gun in his own hand. I thought they would fire at the same time, but they just stood there, facing off like Dukes of old, preparing to duel.

“I knew I saw something going on up here,” said Owen. “You boys are…resilient, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re Blood,” said Jerome.

“West Side Slicks,” said Owen. “Born and raised, same as you.”

“Then why Clair?”

“That isn’t her name,” said Owen. “As to why…that isn’t for a punk like you to know. You had a job. You messed up. I fix messes.”

“You took my Clair.”

Owen nodded. “Now I’m going to take you.” He head checked me. “Then I’ll take him and this mess will be cleaned.”

“Blood Battle,” said Jerome. It was more of a demand than a question.

“It’s your right, if you want it that way,” said Owen.

“Fists?”

“Good with me, but it’ll hurt. Best for you, you just let me put a bullet through your brain and be done with it. Faster, less painful.”

“Pain doesn’t bother me,” said Jerome. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Drop your gun,” said Owen.

Jerome dropped his gun.

“Jerome…what are you doing, Jerome?” I asked.

“West Side Slicks’ got a code. I challenged him, so he’s obliged to honor it. Drop your gun,” said Jerome.

“No,” I said. “Pick yours up.”

“Drop your gun,” said Owen. “I won’t shoot you. You have my word. But if you don’t, I’ll shoot Jerome where he stands.”

“And after you kill him, you’ll beat me to death?” I asked.

For the first time I saw a little smile crease his lips. “Yes.”

“You guys are nuts,” I said. “But I have to admit, I’d kind of like to see Jerome here rip you to pieces.” I tossed my little Glock onto the floor in front of me. “Clash of the Titans. Kind of reminds me of the two big guys fighting it out in the movie The Deep. All I’m missing is beer and some popcorn. Make it fast, Jerome.”

Owen’s dead eyes slid back to Jerome and he actually threw his gun aside and held up his fists in a classic Krav Maga fighting stance.

My left arm was still out of commission, but my right worked just fine. I drew my Smith and Wesson 4506 forty-five caliber semi-automatic handgun from its holster in the middle of my back and put three rounds into his chest. I ran up on him and put two more through his face…just in case he was wearing a vest… which it turned out he was.

Jerome looked at me… stunned.

“What?” I said. “You never saw Raiders of the Lost Ark?” I searched the dead man’s pockets and took what I was looking for. “Indiana Jones has nothing on me.” I turned back to Jerome. “Come on. We’ve got a little girl to save.”

Just then, I felt something grab my shirt at the back of my neck and I was catapulted up and over into the dark stairwell where I crashed into the unforgiving concrete of the wall. Lights flashed behind my eyes and agony exploded in my already injured left arm. I bounced