Blood Lies - 15 by Richard Marcinko

Author:Richard Marcinko [Marcinko, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-09-18T04:00:00+00:00

VII

If the first dog we’d encountered was the hound from hell, this was its mistress. She was meaner, and probably had twenty pounds on her mate, all of it muscle and fangs.

I got my left arm up in front of my face, knocking against the bottom of her jaw. She snapped the air, then rolled down over me. Her momentum carried her into the rocks beyond my head. She tumbled over, then leapt to her feet for another try. I fumbled with my knife, unable to yank it from the scabbard before she dove at my side. I ducked; two of her teeth caught my shirt and pulled me around, bending me against her snout as she fell down. Fortunately, my armored vest kept her teeth from reaching my chest. She clawed at me with her legs, scratching my cheek with claws that felt like ice picks.

I managed to elbow her as we rolled over. I finally freed my knife, but just as I swung it around she rolled onto my arm. The weight of her body against my arm made it go numb. The knife fell, and I swear for a moment I thought she had bit my hand off. In a rage, I bowled forward, pushing the mutt off and sending her head over heels backward.

Blood rushed back into my hand and I grabbed the knife, then leapt at her, blade first. I put the dagger into her throat and held it as she twisted her body, snapping back and forth, trying to bite. Blood spurt everywhere, and the hot spit of her breath torched my face. Finally she fell back, exhausted and drained.

That made two of us.

“Dick! Dick!” hissed Shotgun. “Hey! Are you OK?”

“Where are you?” I growled.

“Up near the barn. I can’t get down any farther without being seen? What’s going on?”

“Stay where you are.” I scrambled up out of the ditch. The headlights from one of the trucks illuminated the road and the field all the way to the grove.

Sure that whoever was in the trucks was looking for us now, I realized our path to the fence would be cut off. The only place to hide, I thought, was up—the roof to the barn. So I leapt out of the ditch and ran to the barn, retreating to the back of the building.

“They’re getting out of the trucks,” said Shotgun.

“Where did that dog come from?”

“It leapt out of the truck. They’re calling for it. They ain’t using Spanish, Dick.”

Shotgun wasn’t the best judge—he didn’t speak Spanish. In any event, the problem now was to avoid detection. Except for the floodlights above me, I had a clear path to the hills that wedged the building in and separated the farm from the condo development to the north. I slid beneath the detectors, eyeing them. Shooting them or the floodlights out from where I stood would be easy, but my gunshots would be heard. I reached down and scooped up some rocks, tossing them at the light.

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