Rough Justice by Klavan Andrew

Author:Klavan, Andrew [Klavan, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2011-11-14T19:00:00+00:00

14

Glass vials shattered under my knees as I dropped to the floor. I let out a scream of pain and was hit again. I went all the way down, rolling to the side. My arms thrashed wildly to fend off another blow.

But it didn’t come. Instead, I rolled over, came up on one leg. Saw the man in the battered hat running out of the room.

“Hey,” I heard someone say quietly. “Shit.”

I got up, tried to sprint after him. My knee buckled beneath me. I tumbled forward, grabbed hold of the jamb.

The man in the battered hat was racing across the foyer. Making for the rectangle of light that led to the street. He’d have gotten away easily if he’d made it out.

But he didn’t. He slipped on a vial, tumbled to one side. Before he went down, he caught hold of a rotting banister newel. He began to drag himself upright.

I leapt at him. Pushing off the jamb, I practically fell forward, reaching out to grab him. My hands slid down the back of his jacket. I crashed to the floor. He started running. But I got him, caught hold of his ankle.

The man pitched forward with a shout, his hat rolling off him. He slapped facedown onto the floor. I heard the glass crunch under him.

He twisted, kicked. His boot crashed into my collarbone. I lost my grip on him, rolled away.

I pushed to my feet. My right knee stung, burned. I fell back against the wall. I leaned there, panting. I watched the black man. He was reaching up, grabbing at the side of the stairs. I wanted to stop him. I couldn’t. I was finished. A curse rasped out of me.

The black man got to his feet, but he didn’t run. He leaned against the stair, breathing hard, pawing his face. He was hurt. The glass had cut him. Right where his scar had been, there was freshly torn skin, dark blood running. He wiped at it, looked at his hand. There were glass shards on the palm.

“Shhhhit,” he said.

He looked up at me angrily, the wide fighter’s nose flaring. I was bent over now, my hands on my knees, my eyes turned up to watch him as I tried to catch my breath.

With his other hand, he took a switchblade out of his pocket. Still staring at me, he snapped it open.

I waved my hand back and forth at him.

“Don’t. Don’t. I can’t … I’m too … Don’t.”

He glanced at the blood and glass on his palm again. “Shit,” he said. “You really hurt me. Fuck.” He shook his head, disgusted. With a quick, angry motion, he wiped his hand on his filthy green pants. He folded up the knife and put it away. Leaning back against the stairs, he coughed a few times. He shook his head. “Shit,” he said for the third time. “Shoulda thought about that mirror behind the bar.”

“Who … who are you?”

“Shit, look at you. You way out of shape. Look at you breathe, Jack.

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