Free JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID by Jack Kilborn Page B

formidable. But he didn’t have training. Streng had seen enough of Santiago to know he’d been taught by the military, probably an elite force. Josh didn’t have a chance going toe-to-toe with him. At least, not without help.
    Even though movement brought a wave of nausea, Streng rolled onto his side and crawled onto Santiago, wrestling for his gun. The killer jabbed at Streng’s eyes, but Streng turned his head away. He chopped at Streng’s neck, but Streng tucked his chin into his chest. A blow to the side of his head made Streng see stars, but he refused to let go of that wrist.
    And then Josh was behind Santiago, putting him in a choke hold. The killer reached around, grabbing Josh’s hair with both hands. Streng tugged at the holster, freed the pistol, and thumbed off the safety in the dark.
    The man flipped Josh over his hip and raised a combat boot to bring down on his head. Streng aimed for the center body mass and fired three times.
    The muzzle flashes hurt his eyes, a strobe effect producing snapshots of Santiago recoiling from the impact of the bullets and falling backward.
    “Behind you,” Josh croaked.
    Streng spun and saw the silhouette of an incredibly huge man—someone at least seven feet tall with the chunky body of a professional wrestler—only a few yards away.
    The thing that had chased him out onto the roof.
    Streng fired four shots, all four hitting home. The large man didn’t break stride. Streng fired two more in the direction of his head, and then Josh pulled him to his feet and they were rushing for the trees.
    Streng had no idea how far they ran before they finally stopped to rest. Two hundred, perhaps three hundred yards. Streng’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hand pressed tight against his injured kidney. Josh clapped a hand on Streng’s shoulder, leaned in close to whisper.
    “What the hell is going on, Sheriff?”
    “I have no idea, son.”
    But Streng did have an idea. And the idea scared him so badly his knees began to knock.
     
     
    • • •
     
     
    D uncan Stauffer stood in the hallway and watched the man in black play with a lighter. It was the biggest lighter Duncan had ever seen—about the size of a Coke can—and the flame shot out of the top like a torch.
    At first, Duncan recoiled in terror and even cried a little. He knew about Stranger Danger and the awful things some men did to little boys. He couldn’t stop thinking that Mom was right, that he was too young to stay home alone, and it was his fault a bad man got in the house.
    After a few minutes of crying, the man began to flick his lighter. That was scary, but it calmed Duncan down somehow, gave him something to focus on. The man hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t touched him, hadn’t said a single word. He just stood there, switching the flame on and off.
    “Who are you?” Duncan finally asked.
    “I’m—hehehe—Bernie.”
    Bernie’s giggle sounded like a little girl’s.
    “Where’s my dog?”
    In the flickering orange, Duncan watched Bernie smile. He touched the flame to the dog collar he still held in his other hand. The nylon collar began to melt.
    “Acrylic. This black black dark black smoke contains chlorine, chlorine, dioxins, and furans. Very very very bad to inhale. But I can’t help taking a little sniff, a little tiny sniff, because I really—hehehe— like it. ”
    Bernie stuffed his nose in a plume of oily smoke and made sniffing sounds.
    “Did you … burn Woof?” Duncan asked, voice cracking.
    “Smell it? Do you smell your dog, Duncan?” Duncan had no idea how the man knew his name. “When fur burns, it smells like hair. Have you—hehehe—smelled burning hair?”
    Duncan shook his head. Bernie dropped the collar onto the hardwood floor, where it quickly went out, and reached for Duncan. The boy tried to duck away, but Bernie clamped a large hand around his neck.
    “Smell this. Smell it.”
    He giggled and touched the jumping flame to the side of Duncan’s head, above his