By Emily March
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When the doorbell rang, she startled. No, not nervous at all. She put a smile on her face and opened the door, saying, “You’re right on time … oh. Mr. ” Gabe Callahan stood on her front porch, the boxer he’d rescued up on Murphy Mountain at his side. ” “No. Not you. ” She frowned down at the dog and said, “Why is the boxer with you? ” Without warning, the dog yanked the leash from Gabe’s hand and darted past Nic and into her home just as her telephone started ringing. Flustered, she said, “I’m sorry.
She frowned down at the dog and said, “Why is the boxer with you? ” Without warning, the dog yanked the leash from Gabe’s hand and darted past Nic and into her home just as her telephone started ringing. Flustered, she said, “I’m sorry. Let me get that. ” Her home was a standard Victorian design with two rooms on either side off a large entry hall with the staircase to the second-floor bedrooms at its center, a narrow kitchen stretching the width of the house at the back. The closest phone sat on a table at the back of the center hall, toward the kitchen.
This time the weapon felt natural in his grip. He flicked off the safety and chambered a round. Shutting his eyes, he took one last deep breath. A sense of peace surrounded him like the snowfall, and he was ready. The force hit him without warning, a hard body blow to the back that knocked him forward and sent the Glock sailing from his grip. Weight settled atop him. Gabe’s thoughts flew like bullets. Not a man. Fur. An animal. Sharp claws dug into his back. Mountain lion? Would fangs sink into his neck?