Diabolical Read Online Free

inches short of the crook of his elbow. Blood was streaming out and spilling onto the roof.
    â€œYou little . . . son of a . . . you cut me! Look at this! You cut me! ”
    Still struggling for air, Hatcher crawled on all fours toward the nearest edge of the roof, coughing. He collapsed when he reached it. It took some effort to prop his shoulders against the wall. The concrete was hard and unforgiving against the back of his head. Gravel shards dug into his lower back, dozens of slivers stuck to his palms. Their sharp tips scratched at his throat as he tried to rub it. He was still having trouble getting enough air. He felt ready to vomit again any moment.
    Sherman was looking down at his wound. The lower half of his forearm was drenched in blood. Thick crimson sheets of it rolled off like paint. He flexed his fist several times, causing more red to flow.
    â€œThis is gonna scar bad,” he said, tilting his head to glare at Hatcher before his expression gave way to a menacing smile. “That’s another one. Ya know, before I was just gonna choke you out. Now I’m gonna rip that sorry pimple of a head of yours off while you’re still breathing. Then I think I’ll shove it up your ass.”
    One chance, Hatcher told himself. That was all he was going to get.
    â€œWhat’d you say?” Sherman asked.
    Hatcher tried to clear his throat, swallowing painfully, the muscles in his neck bruised and raw.
    â€œI said, did you get that voice in prison? Must’ve been a popular guy, from the sound of it.”
    Sherman’s smile widened. He wiped his hand on his jeans, then took off his shirt and wrapped it tight around his lower arm, tying it off.
    â€œI’ll give you this, ass-wipe. You got balls.”
    â€œToo bad you don’t, Princess.”
    The smile remained on the big man’s face, but the eyes were narrower now, hate and rage streaming through the slits the way water blasts through a pressure hose. Hatcher let his body settle lower, wishing he had a better plan, but thinking, times like these, you gotta take what the other guy gives you.
    He took a breath, still trying to work through the pain in his throat. He forced himself to focus. He doesn’t protect his groin.
    Sherman crossed the roof toward him, flexing that hand several more times. The shirt was already saturated with blood.
    Even in his dazed state, Hatcher couldn’t help but notice that Sherman’s chest was just plain enormous, two giant peachy slabs of polished marble, squared off at the edges, the abs below them rippling like large stones implanted beneath the skin. Sherman was more than three hundred pounds, easy, and not an ounce of visible fat anywhere on him.
    One chance, Hatcher reminded himself.
    Sherman bent forward as he came to a stop, straddling Hatcher’s body, thrusting his arms down to snag Hatcher’s throat. Hatcher slid down along the gravel as he did, his hips almost directly below Sherman’s, his body between the man’s ankles. He waited for Sherman’s knees to bend, feeling those viselike hands wrap themselves around his neck again. The pain was immediate and excruciating.
    Just . . .
    A . . .
    Little . . .
    Lower . . .
    Now.
    In one continuous motion, Hatcher pulled his knees in toward his chest, curling his back, and planted his heels firmly into Sherman’s crotch. Then he exploded his quadriceps into a full extension.
    And prayed he had enough strength left.
    Jesus, this guy is heavy.
    Hatcher’s legs buckled, but he continued to press hard and Sherman unsteadily rose into the air. For a fraction of a second, Sherman hung there, balanced, and Hatcher thought he was going to come crashing down on top of him. But then he let go of Hatcher’s throat, throwing his hands onto the wall to catch himself before he slammed into it, and Hatcher was able to complete the move by rolling back, pressing against the gravel with his elbows, using inertia,