The Devil's Army by Jeremy Michelson

Author:Jeremy Michelson [Michelson, Jeremy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-10T22:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Eight

Bennie the mechanic wasn’t answering his door. The old wooden door threatened to fall out of its frame every time Graves rapped his knuckles on it. Dust and flakes of green paint fell with every knock. Harley glanced around. The street was empty. And dark. A strong odor of grease and motor oil hung around the garage. It somewhat overpowered the general stench of trash and dog crap that permeated the neighborhood.

It smelled like dad’s garage.

She fought the shivers that ran up her spine. Pushed away the images of that night bubbling up from the depths of her brain.

“Maybe the guy’s a heavy sleeper,” Harley said.

“Maybe,” Graves said, “Maybe we should try in the morning.”

Harley was about to agree with him when she caught a whiff of something. In between the stink of shit and motor oil, there was something. A bright scent that sent shivers down her spine.

Citrus.

Harley stepped back and yanked the Taser out of her pocket. Graves gave her a look, his hand raised to knock again.

“He’s here,” Harley said, “The Reaper.”

Graves’ eyes went wide. His gun was out in a flash. He took the flashlight from Harley’s hand, then he kicked the door open. Wood crunched and glass shattered as the door slammed back against the wall.

He went in, flashlight and pistol raised.

“Shit,” Harley said.

Usually she was the one going headlong into danger. What the hell was he thinking? She rushed in after him. And almost ran smack into his back.

“What the hell, Walt?” she whispered.

Then she saw the body on the floor in the bright circle of the flashlight. A thin, wiry man in blue mechanic’s overalls. He lay facedown, his balding head reflecting the flashlight’s beam. A greasy baseball cap lay a few inches from him. Blood pooled around his neck. Which sported a horrific gash.

“Bennie the mechanic?” Graves said.

Graves raised the flashlight and panned it across the garage. Racks of greasy tools, oil coated barrels, a rust-stained tow truck.

And a tired looking Buick sedan. The car’s dented fenders were a faded metallic blue. Rust spotted the corners of the doors. But the tires looked new. In the quiet of the garage, Harley could hear the tiny ticks of cooling metal.

Graves walked over to the car and put his hand on the hood. “Still warm,” he said.

Something whirred out of the darkness and hit Grave’s arm. His gun and the flashlight went flying, clattering across the concrete floor, along with the tire iron that hit him. He spun around, clutching his arm. The flashlight’s beam swung wildly as it rolled along the floor.

Harley ran at the where the tire iron came from. The Taser was raised in front of her. The damn thing didn’t have any range. She’d have to get close.

Something slammed into her gut. She went to the floor, gasping for breath. Graves cried out her name. She heard footsteps pounding toward her. Idiot. What did he think he was doing?

Something whistled out of the darkness. She heard metal connect with flesh. A grunt as someone fell to the floor.

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