Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) Read Online Free
Author: Harry Shannon
Tags: Fiction / Thrillers
widened slightly. The gun moved a fraction higher. The man tensed, debated pulling the trigger. I went in very low, swept my right arm up and away. The gun fired once, but I barely heard it.
I slammed into the man, drove him back into the Chevrolet and head-butted the Halloween mask. He grunted. Take this bastard down hard , my stepfather whispered, or you're dead.
I bounced off a solid wall of gym-rat muscle. He clawed desperately for purchase as the gun came back down. Leyna now had her purse open, her cell phone in hand. She was screaming for the police. Her voice seemed to come from another dimension.
To my horror the .22 started to shift towards Leyna, so I grabbed the thick wrist and let my body go slack. My weight forced his arm down towards the dirt. Another POP followed as I freed my left hand and grabbed at the crotch of the black jeans, clenched my fist fiercely and twisted the testicles. The man bellowed and brought the gun down on my forehead. The world whistled the National Anthem.
My eyes filled with blood but I knew better than to release the gun hand so I used my body weight again and dragged the man into an awkward position; he ended up bent in half with his knees buckling. I forced the gun hand inward and began to pressure his fingers, trying to force the guy to shoot himself in the stomach. Teach him not to fuck with you, kid.
The man released the weapon and swung. He caught along the right side of my jaw. I fell backwards and forced the gun to spin away across the pavement towards Leyna. I kicked up at the attacker, but the bigger man dodged. I got up, spun around on one knee and got back to my feet. Now do it, just do it! I was probably quite a sight by now; face contorted with anger and smeared with my own blood.
A cold, weirdly comfortable flower of rage blossomed. Without the gun, the man was just another mean-spirited bully, like all the ones I'd downed in a dozen pointless fights as a kid, or during the dark days of my drinking career. He was my stepfather, Danny Bell.
"Okay, asshole." I wiped the blood away. "Let's dance."
POP.
The two of us turned towards her, startled, and discovered that Leyna now had the little .22. She squeezed the trigger again and it went POP another time. That bullet shattered one of the white lights high up on the lamppost, plunging the area into darkness. She lowered the gun further. It hit me that the first bullet had gone up into the sky. She was getting a feel for the weapon, trying to zero in. I looked back at the bad guy.
The man in black leaped impossibly high, rolled across the roof of the BMW, and raced back into the thick brush. He was gone so quickly it was as if he had never existed.
"Leyna?"
She did not answer, just clung to the now wavering pistol.
"It's over. He's gone."
Leyna dropped the gun and sank to her knees. I was still feeling half berserk from the confrontation. I walked in circles for a few moments, kicking at my car and swearing; tense, dizzy, and shaking from unused adrenaline. Finally I sat down next to her. I ripped a piece of my shirt away and held it against the scalp wound. "You okay?"
Leyna didn't answer.
I shrugged. "That's a dumb question, right? Me neither."
Moments passed. Heavy tires roared down the deserted alley and into the dusty parking lot, fierce headlights pinned us. LAPD in a good old black and white, bright colors whirling on top.
"Keep your hands where we can see them."
I pointed with a weary arm to the fallen pistol. "Only one gun here, guys. It's a little twenty-two. He jumped us and then ran off into the trees."
"Did you call us, ma'am?" the other cop asked. He was approaching fast, one hand on a holstered Glock. Meanwhile his partner examined the darkened area and ran his flashlight beam through the flattened brush.
"Footprints here, Larry," the partner said.
"I got shell casings," the one called Larry said. He picked them up with a pencil and dropped them into a baggie. He resembled me a bit, similar
I slammed into the man, drove him back into the Chevrolet and head-butted the Halloween mask. He grunted. Take this bastard down hard , my stepfather whispered, or you're dead.
I bounced off a solid wall of gym-rat muscle. He clawed desperately for purchase as the gun came back down. Leyna now had her purse open, her cell phone in hand. She was screaming for the police. Her voice seemed to come from another dimension.
To my horror the .22 started to shift towards Leyna, so I grabbed the thick wrist and let my body go slack. My weight forced his arm down towards the dirt. Another POP followed as I freed my left hand and grabbed at the crotch of the black jeans, clenched my fist fiercely and twisted the testicles. The man bellowed and brought the gun down on my forehead. The world whistled the National Anthem.
My eyes filled with blood but I knew better than to release the gun hand so I used my body weight again and dragged the man into an awkward position; he ended up bent in half with his knees buckling. I forced the gun hand inward and began to pressure his fingers, trying to force the guy to shoot himself in the stomach. Teach him not to fuck with you, kid.
The man released the weapon and swung. He caught along the right side of my jaw. I fell backwards and forced the gun to spin away across the pavement towards Leyna. I kicked up at the attacker, but the bigger man dodged. I got up, spun around on one knee and got back to my feet. Now do it, just do it! I was probably quite a sight by now; face contorted with anger and smeared with my own blood.
A cold, weirdly comfortable flower of rage blossomed. Without the gun, the man was just another mean-spirited bully, like all the ones I'd downed in a dozen pointless fights as a kid, or during the dark days of my drinking career. He was my stepfather, Danny Bell.
"Okay, asshole." I wiped the blood away. "Let's dance."
POP.
The two of us turned towards her, startled, and discovered that Leyna now had the little .22. She squeezed the trigger again and it went POP another time. That bullet shattered one of the white lights high up on the lamppost, plunging the area into darkness. She lowered the gun further. It hit me that the first bullet had gone up into the sky. She was getting a feel for the weapon, trying to zero in. I looked back at the bad guy.
The man in black leaped impossibly high, rolled across the roof of the BMW, and raced back into the thick brush. He was gone so quickly it was as if he had never existed.
"Leyna?"
She did not answer, just clung to the now wavering pistol.
"It's over. He's gone."
Leyna dropped the gun and sank to her knees. I was still feeling half berserk from the confrontation. I walked in circles for a few moments, kicking at my car and swearing; tense, dizzy, and shaking from unused adrenaline. Finally I sat down next to her. I ripped a piece of my shirt away and held it against the scalp wound. "You okay?"
Leyna didn't answer.
I shrugged. "That's a dumb question, right? Me neither."
Moments passed. Heavy tires roared down the deserted alley and into the dusty parking lot, fierce headlights pinned us. LAPD in a good old black and white, bright colors whirling on top.
"Keep your hands where we can see them."
I pointed with a weary arm to the fallen pistol. "Only one gun here, guys. It's a little twenty-two. He jumped us and then ran off into the trees."
"Did you call us, ma'am?" the other cop asked. He was approaching fast, one hand on a holstered Glock. Meanwhile his partner examined the darkened area and ran his flashlight beam through the flattened brush.
"Footprints here, Larry," the partner said.
"I got shell casings," the one called Larry said. He picked them up with a pencil and dropped them into a baggie. He resembled me a bit, similar
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