Page 177 of American Hellhound
There was a rustle, then another voice came on the line. It was Collier. “Maggie, Ghost is headed that way. Hang up with me, and call 911, okay?”
“Okay.” A dial tone filled her ear and she gulped. She’d call 911, sure, except now there were footsteps coming up the stairs. Shit.
She hit the numbers and hunkered down low on the other side of her bed. She could hide here, but the cord stretching from the hallway table into her room was a dead giveaway.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the operator asked in her ear.
And her door opened.
Maggie held her breath. She set the phone down on the carpet and gripped the gun tight in her other hand, praying she wouldn’t have to use it.
She could hear the man in her threshold breathing through his mouth. Hear the thump of her pulse in her ears. Hear the operator asking, “Hello?”
“Where you at, girlie?” the man asked. “I know you’re in here.”
“Is anyone there?” the voice from the phone asked.
If Maggie responded, he’d hear her. Then again, he already knew she was here…but she might have him at a disadvantage.Might.
Oh God, oh God…
She stared down at the gun, her pale fingers clenched tight around it, her bubblegum pink nail polish.
The floor groaned quietly as he took a step into her room.
She wanted Ghost to be here – but he wasn’t.
She didn’t want to make this kind of decision – but she had to.
He took another step –
And she popped to her feet, so fast all the blood drained out of her head and black spots formed at the edges of her vision. But she had the gun raised, held mostly steady in both hands.
“Don’t move,” she said, her voice a squeak.
He was a tall guy, fat, beer belly straining his white t-shirt. Small, piggish features and an impressive sunburn on his face. He held a baseball bat in one hand, but she didn’t see a gun. Thank God. She had him at a disadvantage there.
He stared at her a moment, slack-jawed. Then grinned. “Where’d you get that little pea-shooter?”
“Don’t move,” she repeated, firmer this time. “The cops are on the way,” she bluffed. Maybe the operator could hear her. Maybe.
He breathed a phlegmy laugh. “You’re one of them biker bitches alright, ain’t ya?”
“Drop the bat.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“Shut up, or I’ll shoot. Drop the bat. Hands behind your head.”
Still grinning, sighing like he was amused by her, like he was indulging a child, he let the bat fall to the carpet. It thumped down and rolled into the doorjamb. “Things don’t gotta get ugly, sweetheart.”
“Shut up.” Ghost called her sweetheart. It sounded like an insult coming out of this redneck’s mouth.
He laughed again, a crackling smoker’s laugh. She knew she looked afraid, and that he was underestimating her.
She thought maybe she could use that to her advantage.
“Where are my parents?”
