Page 43 of The Grave Robber

“Can you tell me when he gets to the door?”

“You want me to go out there?” she asked, appalled. When Ioffered her my best grin, she winked at me. “Sure thing, handsome. But maybeyou should call for some backup.”

“Halle’s calling the cops.”

“No, I meant some more…aggressive backup.”

Somehow, I’d been assigned as hellhound wrangler at thecompound. Probably because they all slept with me. But that didn’t mean I knewanything about how to control them. “I don’t know how to summon them. And evenif I could, they’re incorporeal.”

“For the most part, but they’re hellhounds. Have you learnednothing?”

Apparently, not.

“He’s at the door,” she whispered like he would’ve heard herhad she not.

If I could disarm him and get him out of the hotel room,Halle could make a run for it. Hopefully, someone saw him walking across the lotwith an assault rifle and called the cops, if for no other reason than to backup Halle’s story. But I didn’t hear sirens yet.

One shot took out the locking mechanism. He kicked the dooropen and entered without checking behind it. Amateur.

I waited half a second then shoved the door with every ounceof strength I possessed. The rifle went flying, and I tackled him in hismidsection, steering him outside. But he was big. He dug in and slowly pushedme back inside the room, my bare feet unable to get traction. We fell to thefloor and rolled, each vying for the upper hand.

“Get ‘im!” Aunt Lil shouted, shadowboxing as she looked on.

When he claimed the top position, I wedged a knee between usand dislodged him so I could scramble to my feet.

He stood, too. A little slower. A little stiffer. But he hadbulk on his side. I had speed on mine.

He raised beefy fists, and I recognized the hand, the oneholding a straight razor in the reflection of Halle’s supposed suicide. Therage simmering beneath my boyish exterior began to boil the blood in my veins.

Why? Why would someone torment another human being forseventeen years? What did he get out of it besides a banal pleasure? Still,seventeen years. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

A humorous grin played about his bloodied mouth. “I was aboxer, too, sport.” He’d looked into me. “And I wasn’t hit by a truckyesterday.”

I groaned. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I wassideswiped.”

“Where is she?”

“You went to a lot of trouble to make Halle believe she’dkilled you seventeen years ago.”

“Yeah, well, she’s worth it, don’t you think?”

I ignored my knee-jerk reaction. “I do, actually.”

“A little gullible, and her taste in men leaves a lot to bedesired, but nobody’s perfect.”

“Is that the only way you can get a girl to notice you?Stalk her until she believes she’s insane?”

He swung.

I ducked.

But he was faster than he looked. He caught my shoulder, andI fell back against the dresser. He rushed me while I was off balance, planningto use his weight to his advantage.

This would hurt.

After the truck incident, I was already sore. He had toweigh upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds. I calculated what that would doto my ribs and my chances of recovering enough to take him afterward. Then Ithought about the beautiful woman in the bathtub. Of how frightened she mustbe. Odd how quickly the mind worked in these situations. Or maybe it was justmy particular brain.

I hadn’t taken a swing at an opponent in over five years.The last time I did, someone died, and my entire crew had paid the price byliving on the run. But when I saw Meacham lunge forward, an instinct that hadtaken years of training to sharpen and hone flared, and I took the shot. A lefthook to the jaw. One defensive blow. The exact same one that’d killed the guyat the bar all those years ago.

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