|
|
|
|
|
|
|
camera by its zoom lens and swinging it down like a club. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Her hair was matted down and black. Her dripping face was black. So were the shoulders of her trench coat. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As John hurried toward her, a man in a corduroy jacket staggered backward and collided with him. The impact knocked the man sideways, turning him. Blood shooting from his torn throat splashed John's shirt. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The guy who'd done it to him was still up, the waitress Joyce riding his back and twisting his head while he struck out with his fist at two men who were keeping their distance. His fist bristled with metal. Keys. Three of them squeezed between his fingers, sticking out like little daggers. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
John stumbled over the feet of someone kneeling on the floor, lurched forward and almost stepped on the ruined face of the man he'd come to help. As the woman raised her camera for another blow, he kicked. The toe of his shoe smashed her throat. The camera flew from her hand. She was lifted off her knees and thrown onto her back. Choking, she clutched her throat. She bucked and twitched. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The man was down, now, Joyce still on his back. Someone stomped his key hand against the floor and he cried out. Joyce scurried off him, and the two men kicked his head until he stopped moving. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
'WE'VE GOTTA LOCK THE DOORS!' John shouted. 'LET'S LOCK THE DAMN DOORS!' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He remembered that Cassy was the acting manager. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She'll know where the keys are. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He whirled around. 'CASSY!' |
|
|
|
|
|