Atlanta Extreme Read Online Free Page A

The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, and his attacker jumped on him.
    Wheezing and grunting, the two men fought brutally to get a choke hold on the other’s throat. The man was tremendously strong, and Hawker realized quickly that he would probably lose any life-and-death test of strength. But he also realized that what the man had in muscle, he lacked in brains. Hawker pretended for just a moment to be blacking out. Immediately the big man shifted his position so as to get a better grip. At that moment of vulnerability Hawker punched him hard in the throat, used his elbow to club the man’s nose flat, then rolled away, reaching for his Beretta.
    Realizing that the fight was lost, the black man jumped to his feet with startling speed and vaulted over the barbed-wire-topped fence, ripping his hands and shirt as he did.
    Hawker did not shoot as the man disappeared into the darkness. After a few moments he holstered his weapon and began to take inventory of his own physical condition. His upper lip was still bleeding, his throat felt as if he had swallowed ground glass, and his inner thigh hurt like hell. “ Damn ,” he whispered, breathing heavily. “What a night!”
    The vigilante carried no handkerchief, so he used a small stick to pick up the man’s weapon, careful not to smear whatever prints might be there. Who he could get to lift the prints—or who would even care that he was attacked—he did not know. Protecting the prints was an old cop habit, and he carried the weapon to the door of his hotel room and turned the knob.
    It was locked. He had forgotten all about the woman, forgotten that she had left with his key.
    Was the big black man her accomplice? Had she taken his key so that he would be left stranded on the walk outside, trying to get in?
    Hawker gave the door a savage kick and called himself a foul name. How stupid could he be! A moment later, though, the door to his hotel room swung open. Laurene Catocamez stood looking at him. She wore one of Hawker’s T-shirts. The darkness of her nipples stood out in contrast beneath the thin, white material. The shirt billowed out around the glistening swell of her lean hips and revealed the bottom curls of the triangle of her black pubic hair. She leaned against the door seal, a wry, sleepy, bedroom expression on her petulant lips. “Did I hear you call yourself a dumb fuck?” she asked, purring. “From what I have heard, James, dear, you are anything but.…”
    The woman stood there looking catlike, extremely desirable, but then her eyes seemed to focus and her expression changed suddenly to one of shock. “James, you’ve been hurt! My God, what happened to you?”
    Hawker realized that he must look like a bloody mess. He shrugged off the woman’s efforts to help him and limped past her to the bathroom. He plugged the sink, ran cold water, and dumped in a bucket of ice from the counter. He buried his right fist in the water, then submerged his face until the pain was too much to stand.
    â€œHand me a towel, damn it,” he sputtered.
    The woman found a towel and began to dab at his face. “Why are you so mad at me? Please, tell me what happened!”
    Hawker jerked the towel from her and finished drying his face. “What happened, dear lady, is that the man you had posted outside my room failed. He tried to kill me, tried very damn hard, but tonight just wasn’t his night. He left with what I truly hope is a fractured arm”—Hawker motioned to the revolver on the counter—“and without his gun.” Hawker tossed the towel away and glared at the woman. “Now, you can make it very easy on yourself, Laurene, by telling me all about it. Or, if you like, I can make you talk. And don’t think for an instant that the fact that you are very obviously a woman bothers me.”
    The woman’s pale mahogany face turned a slow, deep shade of oiled wood.