Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

his right wrist and reattached on his left wrist, teeth going all the way to the bone and then tearing the muscle and skin like wet tissue paper.

For as far back as Jerome could remember, he had never screamed out in pain, but he screamed now, as this beast of teeth and fur and fury tore at and into him. He did scream, and it made him seem small and weak and ashamed so that he felt a rage that he also could not remember experiencing. A rage that blanked the pain and fear and gave him the strength to grip the body of the dog to him and stand up. He jerked the dog off the ground and over his head with one hand, his other still gripped in the dog’s jaws.

He would crush the animal’s skull against the asphalt.

Max felt the man try and go for his back leg. He let go of the arm he held and sunk his canines into the reaching wrist, raking through meat and feeling the power as bloodlust threatened to blank his conscious thought. But years of experience in the wild made him cap his emotions and adrenaline so that he kept himself clear. He felt his body lifted off the ground and understood the man meant to smash him against the ground.

A part of Max, a part his animal brain could not hope to understand, smiled at the challenge. This would not be the easy prey it first appeared to be. This man would be a worthy opponent. Something Max had sorely missed since his fighting days back in Germany.

As the man swung Max down toward the earth, Max shifted his hold and flipped his entire body around so that the man’s own strength was used against him, pulling his weight around and forcing him to fall, awkward and hard, on his side, Max on top, not even touching the ground.

Max let go of the man’s wrist… and went for his throat.

Jerome jerked Max high over his head, and with horror, I realized he was going to slam him against the asphalt. From that height and with that kind of strength, it might kill Max. I sighted in and started my pull on the trigger when suddenly, Max spun about and Jerome spilled to the ground with Max on top.

That’s when I heard the screeching tires and saw the Bloods pouring out of the car about thirty yards from us.

I changed my sight picture as the first Blood snapped off a round that slapped into the street about ten feet from me. I put two into him. I aimed for center mass, but the first slug hit him low in the belly and the second in the side of his hip as he turned. He took three staggering steps and then fell in a sort of tangle of limbs. More bullets spit my way from the running Bloods and I moved to the side, reacquiring the next closest target, and sent two more rounds down range. I heard “thunks” as copper jacketed lead hit the car Keisha was standing in. I realized I had to take the battle away from her. I moved further to the left, hoping to draw their fire, and shot three times fast, aiming low so that if I missed, the bullets wouldn’t go far and hit any innocent homeowners or churchgoers. The stunt worked, one gang-banger going down with a wound to his leg and the others stopping their charge and hiding behind their car for cover as they shot over the hood and roof at me.

I ran for the car and made it just as a bullet shattered out the back windshield. Keisha screamed and I saw Jerome fighting Max through the open car door. I made the hard choice and jerked open the back door, scooping Keisha into the crook of my arm. I yelled to Max; “Foose!” and ran with Keisha toward the front of the church and then for the building itself, the car acting as a shield. Max beat us by about ten strides and then we were around the corner. I peeked around the brick of the building and saw Jerome in a gun battle with the Bloods.

Keisha screamed and I saw Jerome look back at us. His eyes held something deep and dark for me. I turned and ran with the little girl, Max trotting alongside.

In the distance gunshots barked and sirens wailed.

19

Senator Marsh and company pulled up to my front door, just like they had on that first day, only this time, Morgan Freeman wasn’t dressed for a casual day of golfing. He wore a ten-thousand dollar, dark-blue, shadow-plaid Kiton suit, accented with a blazing white shirt, maroon tie and handkerchief. He wasn’t wearing a golfing visor and he looked every bit the political animal; affable and sincere.

Clyde, massive as always, opened the door for him and he stepped down and held out his hand. I shook it, the usual three pumps, firm and assured and then the release, just like last time. His smile was real, bright and confident, his eyes sparkling in the daytime sun as he looked around.

“I knew I picked the right man,” he said. “Where is she?”

“With the police,” I said.

The smile left, both his lips and his eyes, and suddenly he transformed from the vote-seeking politician to the commander of political power that he had owned for so many decades.

“I thought I made myself clear in that the police were not to become involved.”

“I know,” I said, “but it couldn’t be helped. Remember the Bloods from last time?”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid, so I continued.

“Another batch showed up and there was a shootout. The cops saved the day. People were shot, people were bleeding, people got arrested. I had to tell them what was what.” I lied smoothly. “They took her.”

He inhaled deeply, then said; “I see. And where are they