Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

tear-filled eyes sting like mad. My arm’s no longer on fire. It’s gone ice cold.

I press myself into the corner by the door. The only hope now is to get the thug’s assault rifle away from him. Have to fight my way out. Have to get back to O’Doherty’s in time to meet Kyle. Have to find a first aid kit.

Have to live.

The building around me rumbles with the footsteps of dozens of people, and from the sound of it most are still hell-bent on killing me, even without the constant words of Mrs. Conaty.

I wish now that I had sent Kyle away. Sent him to Granston to get a SWAT team up here. Or the fucking National Guard. Anything but the plan we concocted, which now seems woefully inadequate. Leaning against this wall, bleeding out, nowhere to run or hide, I can’t believe I didn’t head down the mountain myself as soon as I saw my car burning. What an idiot. Old me would have done it. Would have realized the need for a team to tackle this problem. New me, though… thanks to that fucking sleeping pill, new me had to go all cowboy on the situation and rush up here to save the day.

I slide down the wall, leaving a smear of blood, no longer feeling the bullet hole on my upper arm.

I’m done. They’re here, the handle is turning, and I don’t have the strength to wrestle an AR-15 away from a trained killer.

I drop the flashlight, which lands standing on its lens, plunging the room into darkness. How fitting, I think.

It’s over. I crumple to the floor.

Except my butt says otherwise.

I don’t reach the floor. I hit something thin and metal instead. A bucket. A full bucket. Sloshing with the acrid stench of bleach. No wonder the smell is so strong.

I drop the Luger and grab the rim of the bucket, rolling to my left at the same time, flinging the container toward the door as light begins to spill in from outside.

There’s a wet slap. A grunt of surprise, and then a heartbeat later the cry of pain follows. The man staggers backward, firing off his assault rifle blindly, each shot utterly deafening in the small, tiled room. He’s fired straight ahead, an act of panic. I’m off to his left, though.

As he stumbles backward, arm over his burning eyes, I rush him. Rounding the doorframe I slam my good shoulder into his midsection. He bounces off the wall opposite and goes down, his rifle trapped under his body. I reach for the weapon, then change my mind. People are starting to come in the back door of the station, just fifteen feet away. Flashlight beams swinging this way. None of them seem confused now. I silenced the SUV, so Conaty herself must be close. Close enough for them to hear her.

I run away from their lights, deeper into the station. The hall goes another fifteen feet, then rounds a corner, into the main room where the cells are, and beyond those, my desk. Greg’s desk. Weapons locker. Everything.

That’s when the lights come back on.

And the weirdest thought enters my delirious head. I expect them all to shout “Surprise!” and throw confetti.

Instead they hold in their hands the weapons from the very locker I’ve been working toward.

This is not going to plan at all.

Instinct.

It’s the root of this entire mess, and yet the thing that saves my ass, at least for now.

Without a conscious thought I fly into motion.

The bad guys are on the other side of the room, just entering from the front door. As surprised that the lights have come on as I am.

But there’s one person who is in the center of the room, standing between us.

Doc.

Dr. Frank Ryan, town shrink, coconspirator to Mr. Ang and Mrs. Conaty. He’s seated at my desk, a penlight between his lips, riffling through my files and drawers. Looking for his notes, I’ll bet.

I race toward him, crouching low as I weave around the four empty jail cells and the watercooler. Someone fires at me, a single shot that shatters the bottle, splashing cold water across the carpeted floor.

From the small of my back I draw Damian Blackwood’s ceremonial knife.

Doc comes to a stand, unsure what’s going on. He’s not looking at me, but at the people pouring into the front of the station. So many guns, aimed at me, but I’m behind Doc so he freezes at the sight of all those weapons pointed his way. Everyone’s shouting at him. “Get down!” “Move, idiot!” “Out of the way!” Doc’s too slow to understand. He thinks they’re here for him, and starts to raise his hands.

I slip up behind him and clamp my left hand across his forehead, heaving it back to expose his neck. I thrust my knee against his, pushing his leg outward. Fresh pain flares in my left shoulder, but the adrenaline pounding through me tamps it down. For once I’m thankful for Doc’s flabby six-foot-eight frame. At nearly a foot taller than me, and with his bulging midsection, he makes damn good cover.

My right hand holds the fake knife from Damian’s staged satanic dungeon. I press it lightly against Doc’s throat. He needs to feel it, but too much pressure and the chocolate syrup inside the false blade will start to flow and give away the ruse.

Eight people stand before me. Perhaps as many behind now, filing in from the back hall. They need new orders, or I’m a dead woman.

“Call them off,” I say in Doc’s ear, “or you die.”

“Stop,” Doc utters, terrified. “All of you, stop!”

The room goes instantly quiet, the mob obedient to his command.

I scan the faces of those in front of me, blocking the door. No sign of Sandra Conaty. Her two guests—Mr. Secretary and the wealthy sleazebag—aren’t around, either. God forbid they get near the action.

Two of the professional badasses who arrived on