Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Snow let them think what they wanted. He’d excused himself from the group many a time before and there was no way he wanted one member to see who he thought that was. He had to get to the guy first. Snow stood, ignoring the piercing, questioning stare Lucas aimed at him, and grabbed his brown jacket. “Sorry, but I have to leave. Early surgery tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right,” Rowe muttered, his smile showing he wasn’t in the least put out.
Snow paused long enough to let Melissa press a kiss to his cheek. “Have fun, sweetie,” she murmured with a dirty chuckle.
He strode fast toward the spot where that figure had disappeared and saw the man trying to dodge the crowd as he hurried toward the entrance. Snow caught glimpses of his black jacket as he moved. Right before the guy reached the door, he turned slightly and the light caught his face again.
Everything in Snow froze as he saw the long scar bisecting his left cheek. A scar Snow himself was responsible for inflicting. “Oh hell no,” he muttered as he pushed harder through the crowd and ran outside. His breath fogged instantly in the cold.
He pulled on his jacket, blinking against the blinding light hanging just above the entrance, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he searched for his target. Farther down the block to his right, he caught sight of a tall figure as he darted through an opening in the old chain link fence that surrounded the parking lot beside John R. Green School Supply. Snow lurched forward, roughly shoulder-checking a pair of college kids heading to the bar he’d just exited. They swore loudly, but Snow kept moving, ignoring them in favor of the sadistic bastard he planned to take apart with his bare hands.
When Snow saw the escaping figure slip between some cars and back onto the sidewalk along West Sixth Street, he smiled. Dwight Gratton was heading straight into what should be clogged sidewalks and busy streets. Rowe’s questionable choice of bars was situated on Banklick, just a block over from the MainStrasse Village and Gratton was walking right into the bright lights and congestion of the commercial district. Even for a Wednesday night, the Village should be a vibrant place.
Snow’s hard-soled shoes echoed off the broken, uneven pavement in the bitter cold air. Each hammering step flashed a new image through Snow’s brain like a demonic slideshow. Ian bleeding and battered. Ian bound by his hands and feet. Ian’s wide blue eyes filled with terror and defeat and hopelessness. And the man standing over Ian, was Dwight Gratton. Over the memories Snow could still hear Gratton laughing, high and sharp, a deranged hyena set loose on a wounded creature.
Gratton was not supposed to be in Cincinnati—not breathing the same air as Ian. It was part of the agreement that Lucas had struck that horrible night so many years ago in a last ditch effort to save both Ian’s life and possibly, the remains of Snow’s soul. Gratton’s permanent exile was the only thing that let Snow sleep at night, when he could sleep.
Terror ripped through Snow. Ian couldn’t be Gratton’s target again.
Few lights dotted the street and the narrow, sagging homes were mostly dark at that late hour. Snow sucked in a breath as he rounded one last car and emerged on the sidewalk on West Sixth, heading toward Main. The frigid air sliced down his throat to his lungs, but his focus never wavered from the man still a dozen yards ahead of him. Gratton shoved a couple out of his way as they walked toward the parking lot. The woman screamed as she lost her balance in her heels, falling into the man at her side.
As Gratton passed the bronze Goose Girl fountain in the center median, the bright lights washed over the man, allowing Snow to see him more easily. Lines stretched from his eyes that hadn’t been there that last time they’d met. His cheeks were gaunter, his cheekbones more prominent, as if time were draining the life from his frame. Gratton paused at the corner, just outside the Cock & Bull English Pub, and looked back over his shoulder. Foot traffic was lighter than Snow had anticipated, allowing him to clearly see Gratton as he leered at Snow, the long scar on his cheek twisting the flesh to make his expression appear just a little more maniacal.
The fucker had known he would follow.
When Gratton turned back, he darted across Main Street against the light. Car horns blared and tires squealed as he narrowly missed being hit by one car before rolling deftly across the hood of a battered yellow cab to land on his feet on the opposite side of the street. Gratton ran, pushing people who stopped to gawk out of his way.