AFTER Read Online Free PDF Page A

flesh-eating freak!"
    Rott simply stood there, totally relaxed and at ease. His head cocked back an inch or so and he smiled that savage smile that the world knew so well. Sam watched breathlessly as Rott's hand moved swiftly to the holster on his belt, unsnapped the retaining strap, and drew the cleaver.
    With a motion that was graceful – almost beautiful – in its execution, Rott whirled, bringing the heavy blade around in a wide, sweeping arch. The edge of the cleaver traveled to Calhoun's throat and beyond, tunneling past skin, muscle, and bone, decapitating the man.
    Well almost . A stubborn mat of tendons in the back of Calhoun's neck refused to yield and the big man's head flopped over his back and hung there, resting between his shoulder blades. Calhoun staggered around in a drunken circle, the arteries of his neck spouting a fountain of crimson and his windpipe whistling loudly as his lungs pumped out his last few breaths. The others backed up, giving the dead biker a wide berth. Finally, the strength drained out of him and he dropped to his knees. Calhoun remained like that for a long moment, then fell, chest-down, onto the asphalt of the street. His head remained in its unnatural position, its glassy eyes glaring skyward, still holding the anger and threat they had possessed thirty seconds before his untimely demise.
    Lord have mercy! thought Sam. He felt the burn of bile rise into his throat, but instantly swallowed it. It wouldn't do him a speck of good to throw up his shoe soles and draw the gang's attention in his direction. So far, they hadn't noticed him or had ignored him completely… and that was the way he preferred it.
    "Okay, if any of you guys want some Calhoun steak, have at him," said Rott . "He's too damned nasty for me to sink my teeth into."
    None of his posse took him up on the offer, looking uncomfortable and pale in the face.
    "Clarence, fetch those grills," Rott told him. "We'll go in and get the entrees."
    "Gotcha!" The lean black man snapped his fingers and three big fellows followed. One was a head taller than the others, with broad shoulders a yard wide, flowing blond hair, and the face of an Adonis. Sam recognized him, too. He was a pro wrestler for the WWE named the Alabama Hitman ; a big bruiser of a villain in the arena, full of piss and vinegar, and known for crushing his opponents without mercy. Several weeks ago he had turned a particularly popular wrestler into a paraplegic with a suplex that had broken the man's neck so loudly that the crack could be heard beyond the cheering crowd, outside the stadium.
    As Rott and several of his men barged into Millie's Pet Shop, Sam watched as Pickpocket and his trio marched down the sidewalk toward the True-Value. George Pendergast stood up from where he had been sitting in a folding lawn chair. "Now, y'all stand back!" he warned, leveling his shotgun. "You ain't getting nothing of mine… you hear me?"
    Just let 'em have it, George, Sam thought. Give them the grills and anything else they want. These fellas aren't to be trifled with.
    The look on Pendergast's face as they advanced told Sam that he suddenly considered the same thing. But it was too late. The Hitman barreled forward and, grabbing hold of the barrel of the twelve-gauge, yanked it out of the storeowner's hands. George attempted to retreat, but he had his back to the front window. The wrestler beat the man to death with the butt of his own weapon, hammering away at his head until the walnut stock splintered in two and George Pendergast's blood and brains splattered across the sidewalk and into the street.
    Sam closed his eyes, feeling unsteady. God, please stop this. Let them have their damned lunch and be on their way. But he knew that it wouldn't be that simple. The expression in Rott's face had told him that he intended to stick around for a while.
    The old man opened his eyes when he heard Millie scream. He looked across the street to see Rott and the others leaving the pet