"Kat Richardson - Greywalker 01 - Greywalker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Kat)

Huffine, Leila Jane Phelps, and Andrew "Fluke" McKenzie, who had to leave too
soon.
I am grateful for so much help and friendship from all of these people and from
those I may have forgotten who've lent me their support for so long. They've all
contributed in some way to this book, but if there are mistakes in it, those are entirely
mine.
тАФKR
 Chapter One

I'd been surprised when the guy belted me. Most people don't flip out when they
get caught in such a small fraud. I had expected an embarrassed apology and a hasty
check to appease my clientтАФhis stepdaughter. But instead, the guy leaned over his
desk and smacked a sledgehammer fist into the side of my head.
I pitched out of my chair, ears buzzing. I groped for my purse, but he was moving
around the desk faster than I could get at my gun. I rolled to my knees and aimed to
slug him below the belt.
He dodged and tagged me with another fat fist to the back of my skull. Then a kick
in the ribs. I shrieked as my breath rushed out, and prayed for nosy neighbors and
paper-thin walls. He raised his foot again.
I rolled, shoved his forward-swinging foot ... and both feet slid out from under
him. I ape-scrambled for the door. My chest felt as if everything had torn loose from
its moorings.
My head yanked back as he jerked a fistful of my long ponytail. I kicked
backward. Something meaty met my heel, but not what I'd been hoping for.
"Goddamn it!" He whipped my head sideways against the door-jamb. I thought the
side of my skull had caved in.
Everything hurt. I wrenched around, close to his body, using him for support. Hair
ripped from my scalp. I batted his head against the wall with one hand and crunched
a knee into his crotch. He gasped, letting go of my hair. I jerked loose, spun,
shouldering through the doorway, staggering into the hall, scrabbling my gun from
my purse as I made for the elevator.
Nothing worked right: my legs felt like rubber bands; every time my hand closed on
the pistol's grips, it slithered away; I couldn't get a full breath; my chest blazed
agony. All I could hear was buzzing and the swishing of blood through my veins.
I shoved open the folding metal gates of the antique elevator and lurched forward.
Another yank on my hair stopped me short. I tried to turn around and shoot the
bastard, but my legs collapsed under me. The gun spun onto the elevator floor and
slid into a corner.
Clutching my hair, he grabbed hold of the outer gate. I scrambled my old Swiss
Army knife out of my jeans pocket. He slapped the gate against my neck. It felt like
he was trying to cut my head off. I squirmed and tried to jerk away. The gate
smacked into my temple. Blood ran from my ear, hot against the side of my skull.
My vision narrowed to a dark, bloody tunnel.
The gate again. Smash! An insistent rattling noise came from the elevator and the
inner gate tried to close on me, too. I flipped open the big blade of the pocketknife
and jabbed it into the man's hand on my hair. He yelped and let go.
My head thudded a few inches onto the elevator floor and I squirmed the last
measure away from the closing gates. I could hear the man rattling the grille and
calling me a whole lexicon of dirty names as the elevator started down. Something
was still tugging on my hair, but I didn't want to worry about it; I wanted to curl up