True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(21)

That’s when one of the dogs nudged his good arm with her wet nose and whined at him while the other dog scratched at the french door. How long had they been asking to go out? He set the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker and the jar of nuts on the coffee table, got up on shaky legs, and opened the french doors for the dogs.



At the same instant that Ian opened that door, another door opened at the back of the kitchen. The assassin slipped into the house from the side yard, unnoticed by man or beast. She casually selected a knife from a wooden knife block on the counter and crept up behind Ian, who stood at the open french door, his back to her. This would be easier than killing a fly.



Ian started to close the french door when he saw a reflection in one of the windowpanes and screamed. He saw a woman behind him, raising a knife to his throat. He whirled around to face her, instinctively bringing up his right arm, the one in a cast, to protect himself. Her blade raked the cast as he clumsily backed away from her, still screaming.

The assassin advanced, swinging and thrusting the knife. He blocked her repeatedly with his cast, the blade stabbing through the plaster, chipping away at it. She was smiling the whole time and he realized, to his horror, that the only reason he was still alive was because she was amused by his ridiculous attempts at self-defense. But she was getting tired of it.

She kicked his legs out from under him. He fell onto the coffee table and she came in for the kill. He grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck with his good hand and swung it at her head. She raised her arm to block the blow. The bottle smashed against her arm, cutting her and splashing them both with whiskey. Her eyes became ice cold and he knew he was going to die.

Ian’s screams brought Margo running into the kitchen while he was still fighting off the assassin. She grabbed two frying pans, one in each hand, from the overhead rack and charged into the family room. The assassin turned away from Ian just as Margo swung a frying pan at her head. The assassin dodged the pan and thrust her knife at Margo, who blocked it with the other frying pan. Now the assassin directed her fury at Margo, leaving Ian behind.

Margo deflected the assassin’s knife attacks with the frying pans. But the assassin kept coming, with increasing speed and ferocity, forcing Margo back against the cooking island. In a second, Ian was certain that Margo would be pinned and killed.

Ian got to his feet, grabbed a fireplace poker, and charged the assassin. She sensed him coming and seemed more irritated than threatened. She turned to face him just as the two golden retrievers came bounding back into the house, right across Ian’s path.

Ian tripped over the dogs and flew forward, straight into the assassin, driving the poker into her stomach with the force of his full body weight. Her body made a moist, sucking sound as she was gored and he felt the sickening, gelatinous sensation of her flesh being penetrated.

He let go of the poker and scrambled away. The assassin stared at him with profound disbelief, blood spilling out of her belly, and toppled to the floor.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

An Excerpt from Death Benefits by Ian Ludlow

The barbecue joint was on a desolate highway in a forgotten corner of Texas. The only sign was a piece of warped, cracked plywood with the three letters BBQ painted in faded red. There were no posted hours. The shack began serving when the meat was ready and closed when the meat was gone.

The cinder block and corrugated metal shack was filled with smoke from the pits out back, where racks of ribs and brisket were barbecued to perfection. The pit master was an ancient black man, his face weathered from decades spent leaning into the heat and smoke, his stained apron the painted history of Texas barbecue. The pit master lived in a double-wide behind the shack. The meat was his life.

Straker was the only customer. He sat at one of the two long wooden picnic tables, each covered with throwaway red-checkerboard tablecloths. He took a fork and knife from the mason jar full of cutlery in the center of the table and set them on the white paper napkin beside his bottle of beer.

The waitress came out with a plate of pork ribs, a bowl of beans, and a piece of homemade bread that was torn from the loaf with her bare hands. She was a middle-aged white woman with big cheeks—front and rear—and a clean apron.

“I hope the ribs taste as good as they smell,” Straker said.

“Even better, honey.” She gestured to the three squeeze bottles on the table, each a different shade of red. “Those are the sauces. Original, spicy, and Melt Your Fucking Face Off.”

Straker reached for the Melt Your Fucking Face Off, slathered a rib with it, and took a bite. The waitress watched for the agonized reaction, and got none. She was bewildered.

“It’s mighty tasty,” Straker said. “But I have toothpaste with more kick.”

“I must have put the wrong sauce in the bottle.” She squeezed a drop of the Melt Your Fucking Face Off onto her fingertip, licked it, and instantly winced with pain. “What do you brush your teeth with? Lye?”

Before he could answer, three big shitkickers carrying baseball bats stepped into the joint. They wore sleeveless shirts and tank tops that showed off their prison tats and jailhouse muscles. One stood at the door while the other two approached Straker. The waitress stepped away from the table but Straker concentrated on eating his first rib.

“We come to teach you a lesson, boy,” Shitkicker #1 said, standing to Straker’s right.

“It’s we’ve come,” Straker said. “Now I’ve just taught you a lesson.”