Dangerous Ground 2: Old Poison Read Online Free PDF Page B

Will put on a burst of speed as Taylor reached the corner of the sidewalk, pausing—amazingly—the few seconds before the crossing light turned green.
    The light turned, the perky pedestrian symbol glowing white-green, and Taylor stepped out ahead of the rest of the people milling on the corner. At the same time, a battered Chevy pulling away from the curb accelerated, tires squealing as the driver tried too late to make the light.
    A woman on the corner screamed in warning. Will saw Taylor's head jerk up, too late, to see the car bearing down on him.

    * * * *
Oh yeah. That . Speeding cars coming his way.

    Dangerous Ground: Old Poison
    25

    Taylor had barely time to recognize his serious miscalculation when something significantly big and muscular hurtled full bodied into him, knocking him halfway across the intersection. He landed hard and unprepared, the breath knocked out of him, hands and knees burning as asphalt scraped away skin.
    He felt the hot breath of the car rushing past, tires squealing, the smell of rubber and exhaust and hot tar.
    Sluggishly, he was aware of people screaming. But I had the right-of-way, he thought.
    That was shock, though, not logic. Will was beside him, getting to his knees, which took care of Taylor's immediate concerns. He'd known the minute that solid mass of bone and muscle had crashed into him that it had to be Will.
    “The sonofabitch didn't stop.” Will swore bitterly, examining his bloody elbow.
    “Why should he? He didn't hit us.” Taylor staggered to his feet, offered a hand to Will, who took it and let himself be pulled up.
    They examined each other quickly, awkwardly—it was hard to forget what had precipitated that close call. Wincing at more than scrapes and bruises, Taylor considered his own grazed hands. Will must have noticed, because he reached out, catching Taylor's wrists and studying his palms.
    After what seemed a smoldering sort of moment, he released Taylor, saying curtly, “You'll live.”
    “Thanks to you,” Taylor admitted. No point in pretending otherwise. He owed Will that one.
    Will was apparently too pissed to want to take credit. He turned away, heading back across the intersection, asking whether anyone had managed to get a license-plate number. The witnesses—those who had stuck around—were already disagreeing about whether Taylor had stepped out before the light turned green.
    This was not the place to conduct an inquiry, and Taylor couldn't understand Will's insistence on trying. As there were no longer any pedestrians sprawled in the intersection, the opposite street traffic was now trying to make its left-hand turn and impatient motorists were laying on the horn. He followed Will to the curbside, frowning, as Will tried to insist on someone supplying a make on the car or some kind of ID on the driver.

    26
    Josh Lanyon

    A brown Chevy, according to Will. Why did that ring a bell?
    Either nobody could or would volunteer any part of a license-plate number. The crowd had already dispersed as people remembered they had places to be and things to do. It wasn't as though there had actually been an accident; it was just another close call, and they happened every day.
    Within a matter of seconds it was just Taylor and Will standing on the sidewalk while pedestrians streamed like ants around the obstruction they created.
    “Are you okay? Are we done here?” Taylor asked, seeing that Will was still quietly fuming. He knew what Will wanted, of course. What Will wanted was to yell at him , for nearly getting himself flattened like Wile E. Coyote. Taylor understood that impulse perfectly well because he felt the same way anytime Will had a close call on the job. Ordinarily Will would fire off a few well-chosen volleys, but they had been arguing when Taylor stepped in front of the car, and Will was restraining himself at the expense of his blood pressure.
    Taylor understood all this in a matter of seconds. That's how it was with him and Will.
    They