Eyes of Prey Read Online Free PDF

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    Randy fell over the bar, scrambled along the floor behind it and up over the end of it, grabbed a bottle of Absolut vodka and backhanded it at Del’s head. Then he was running for the back of the bar, Lucas four steps behind him, knowing the back door was locked. Randy hit it, hit it again, then spun, his eyes wild, flashing a spike. They were all the fashion among the assholes. Clipped to a shirt pocket, they looked like Cross ballpoint pens. With the cap off, they were six-inch steel scalpels, the tip honed to a wicked point.
    “Come on, motherfucker cop,” Randy howled, spraying saliva at Lucas. His eyes were the size of half-dollars, his voice high and climbing. “Come on, motherfucker, get cut . . . .”
    “Put the fuckin’ knife down,” Del screamed. His gun pointed at Randy’s head. Lucas, glancing at Del, felt the world slowing down. The fat bartender was still behind the bar, his hands on his ears, as though blocking out the noise of the fight would stop it; Marie had gotten to her feet and was staring at a bleeding palm, shrieking; the two shitkickers had taken a step away from the shuffleboard bowling machine, and one of them, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, was fumbling at the sheath on his belt . . . .
    “Fuck you, cop, kill me,” Randy shrieked, doing a sidestep shuffle. “I’m a fuckin’ juvenile, assholes . . . .”
    “Put the fuckin’ blade down, Randy . . . .” Del screamed again. He glanced sideways at Lucas. “What d’ya wanna do, man?”
    “Let me take him, let me take him,” Lucas said, and he pointed. “The shitkicker’s got a knife.” As Del started to turn, Lucas was facing Randy, his eyes wide and black, and he asked, “You like to fuck, Randy?”
    “Fuckin’ A, man,” Randy brayed. He was panting, his tongue hanging out. Nuts: “Fuck-in-A.”
    “Then I hope you got a good memory, ’cause I’m gonna stick that point right through your testicles, my man. You fucked up Betty with that church key. She was a friend of mine. I been looking for you . . . .”
    “Well, you got me, Davenport, motherfucker, come get cut,” Randy shouted. He had one hand down, as he’d been shown in reform school, the knife hand back a bit. Cop rule of thumb: An asshole gets within ten feet of you with a knife, you’re gonna get cut, gun or no gun, shoot or no shoot.
    “Easy, man, easy,” Del shouted, looking at the shit-kicker . . . .
    “Where’s the woman? Where’s the woman?” Lucas called, still facing Randy, his arms wide in a wrestler’s stance.
    “By the door . . .”
    “Get her . . . .”
    “Man . . .”
    “Get her. I’ll take care of this asshole . . . .”
    Lucas went straight in, faked with his right, eluded Randy’s probing left hand, and when the knife hand came around, Lucas reached in and caught his right coat sleeve, half threw him and hit him in the face with a roundhouse right. Randy banged against the wall, still trying with the knife, Lucas punching him in the face.
    “Lucas . . .” Del screamed at him.
    But the air was going blue, slowing, slowing . . . the boy’s head was bouncing off the wall, Lucas’ arms pumping, his knee coming up, his elbow, then both hands pumping, a slow motion, a long, beautiful combination, a whole series of combinations, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, like working with a speed bag . . . the knife on the floor, skittering away . . .
    Suddenly Lucas was staggering backward; he tried to turn, and couldn’t. Del’s arm was around his throat, dragging him away . . . .
    The world sped up again. The people in the bar stared in stunned silence, all of them on their feet now, their faces like postage stamps on a long, unaddressed envelope. The basketball game was going in the background, broadcast cheers echoing tinnily through the bar.
    “Jesus,” Del said, gasping for breath. He said, too loudly, “I thought he got you with that knife. Everybody stay away