True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(22)

“Get up, asshole,” Shitkicker #2 said, standing to Straker’s left.

“I’m eating lunch.” Straker finished his first rib and set down the clean bone. “Wait outside and you can frighten me when I’m done.”

“We ain’t gonna frighten you, boy,” Shitkicker #3 said from his spot at the door. “We’re gonna beat the shit out of you.”

“Then I suggest you call for some more men while you’re waiting,” Straker said, reaching for the squeeze bottle of Melt Your Fucking Face Off.

“There’s three of us and one of you,” Shitkicker #1 said.

“You’re outnumbered.” Straker squirted the sauce into Shitkicker #1’s face. It didn’t melt the man’s face off but he screamed in pain and reached for his eyes.

Straker grabbed the top of Shitkicker #1’s bat with both hands and jammed the handle deep into the man’s gut. Shitkicker #1 doubled over and dropped to the floor, banging his head on the edge of the table as he went down. Straker set the bat on the bench.

Shitkicker #2 charged, bat above his head. Straker whirled around and threw his fork at him like it was a dagger. The fork plunged deep into Shitkicker #2’s throat. The man instinctively grabbed for the fork and dropped his bat. Straker caught the bat, rammed Shitkicker #2 in the balls with it, and then set it on the bench, too. Shitkicker #2 hit the floor, curled up in agony beside his friend.

Straker hadn’t moved from his seat or disturbed his plate. He looked at the shitkicker who stood at the door and said, “Can I finish my lunch now?”

“Yeah, sure,” the man stammered and walked out the door.

Straker put some sauce on his ribs, had a sip of his beer, and got back to eating, paying no attention to the two men on the floor as they struggled to their feet and staggered out of the place. They left their bats behind.

The waitress came over and set a thick slice of pecan pie on the table. “We’re going to have to rename our hot sauce.”

“Why’s that?” Straker asked.

“Billy Bob may be blind for life but he’s still got his face,” she said. “You have any suggestions?”

Straker wiped his lips with his napkin. “The Ass Kicker.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN

The assassin’s death was agonizing and ugly. Blood gushed out of her belly and bubbled up out of her mouth. She gurgled and her body twitched. Her bladder and bowels emptied with a noisy splurt and a revolting stench. The next instant, she was suddenly as still and lifeless as a rock.

This was a real death, unlike anything Ian had ever seen, because he’d seen only fictional death before. But now that she was dead, he slowly became aware of his own trembling, of the dogs cowering behind the couch, and of Margo beside him, staring numbly at the body and holding a pan in each hand, prepared for more battle. Ian gently touched Margo’s hand, snapping her out of her stare.

“I don’t think you need those anymore,” he said.

Margo became aware of herself and hung the scratched and dented pans back on the rack.

“That’s the second time you saved my life,” he said.

Margo shook her head. “We saved each other.”

An actual, professional assassin had tried to kill them both and he’d killed her instead. It was unbelievable. But there she was, right in front of him. He could see her and smell her. Somehow seeing an actual killer, especially a dead one, lying on the floor in front of him made the danger more visceral. It was one thing to have a car trying to run him over, but quite another to see the threat against him in the flesh. He’d looked a killer in the eye this time, not a camera lens. The threat against him was amorphous before. Now it was human.

But who was this killer? Where did she come from? And how did she find them?

One of the dogs, feeling emboldened, inched forward to sniff at the blood. Margo grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him back. “No, no, no. Stay away from the dead psychopath.”

“You should get the dogs out of here,” Ian said. “And keep them out.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Margo hustled the dogs out of the kitchen into the dining room and closed the doors, then came back in and closed the french doors leading outside.

While she did that, Ian went to the sink, put a rubber dish glove on his left hand, and crouched beside the assassin’s body, careful not to get blood, or anything else, on his shoes. He reached out with his left hand and began easing a fanny pack out from under her body, wincing as he did it and breathing through his mouth to avoid the stink.

Margo squatted beside him, grimacing at the gore. “What are you doing?”

“I saw this fanny pack on her when she went after you. I want to see what she’s got inside. Maybe we can learn something about who she was and how she found us.”

He unzipped the bloody pack, holding it at arm’s length, and carefully removed a rental car key fob, a lock pick, and a disposable cell phone. He stood up, flipped the phone open, and showed Margo what was on the message screen. His hand was shaking so she had to grab his wrist to steady the phone while she looked at the display. She saw pictures of the two of them and the address of the house.

“How did they find us?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to try to buy us some time.”