Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor Read Online Free

high-speed pass, bellowing in his hair-raising bass voice. The woman nearly wet her pants, and the bones went out of the guy’s legs. Having accomplished that, Ripper disappeared into the fog, a happy dog indeed.
    Unfortunately, I was on top of them too quickly to give them much warning, and I finished off their day by yelling out my apology, too loud and too close. “He’s harmless!” I lied, as I swept past them.
    I glanced over my shoulder as I jogged away. They were still standing there in a state of shock when the fog blotted them out. “Dammit, Ripper,” I yelled, as he made another high-speed pass, this time straight at me. I swear there was a grin on his face.
    But it had been a funny scene, and I was still chuckling when we got back to the car. As I mopped my face with my sweatshirt, the picture popped into my head again. I buried my face in a towel, trying unsuccessfully to suppress my laughter and get the sillies under control. Finally, the cold breeze off the lake penetrated my sopping wet sweats, which snapped me back to reality.
    I was tired, but it felt good. It had been a relief to get Felicia Martinez out of my mind, even for a little while. Jilly had called me several times in the three weeks since the funeral. He was at a loss as to how to help her. She didn’t show any desire to leave, and she went more or less where she was led. Vi looked after her, sitting quietly for hours with Felicia while the broken young woman sat Indian-fashion in her robe, staring into the fire.
    Ripper piled into the passenger seat and stared through the windshield, patiently waiting for his housekeeping staff to take him home to lunch. I pulled on a sweatshirt, then slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine.  
    The smell of wet dog filled the interior of the car, and I cracked my window a bit. But well before I got to the main road I had the window all the way down and was berating my sidekick with, “Gas! Jeez, Ripper, why do you always have gas when we come to this damn lake!”

    I let myself into my cabin and pushed the door shut behind me with one foot, already peeling off wet clothing with both hands. Ripper flopped in front of the fireplace, knowing full well I’d light it at the first opportunity. I got it going, then adjusted the flame and dropped a couple pieces of wood on the grate. Within seconds they were crackling and burning fiercely. I shut off the gas and walked away, hearing Ripper’s contented sigh as he stretched out on the rug.

    Twenty minutes later I stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel. After scrubbing myself dry, I carefully examined the big man who stared back at me from the full-length mirror. He certainly looked fit enough: highly defined muscle structure, clear eyes, steady hands.  
    But the scars! Both knees were crisscrossed with reminders of several knee injuries (Vikings vs. Bears and Vikings vs. Lions). White scar tissue ran across the bridge of my nose (Vikings vs. Green Bay), and another one ran the length of my right jawbone (shrapnel). My left bicep looked like someone had used an ice cream scoop (made-in-Russia semi-automatic rifle). Finally an ugly white scar meandered across my belly, just above my groin, courtesy of a snake-mean little bastard with a switchblade (New Orleans, after Katrina).  
    After donning a clean sweatshirt and jeans, I sat down and pulled on fresh sweat socks and deck shoes. I gave my hair a couple of licks with a brush before I walked back into the living room and over to the wet bar.
    I mixed a Rusty Nail, then settled into my old rocking chair. I bought it at a garage sale about five years ago, and since then the various women who have visited my place have urged me to throw the thing out. Their reasons ranged from vague to totally unreasonable. But I like it, so it stays.  
    My cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller I.D. “Hello, Jilly,” I said.
    “Jack, can you come over?”
    “Sure. When?”
    “Now would be