Free The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) by Adam Lance Garcia Page A

throw him off balance. As the mobster stumbled forward, Caraway reached for his sidearm—only to find an empty holster. Dammit! he thought. It must have slipped out mid-leap.
    “Missin’ somethin’, coppa?” Adair had regained his balance, giving Caraway a look with deadly intent as he twirled the sword in one hand.
    “This day just keeps on getting better,” he grumbled.
    “Don’t worry, coppa, it’ll be over soon!” Adair shouted as he dove at Caraway again.
    Caraway ineffectively held his right arm up in defense, the blade slicing through his coat, stinging as it cut into his skin.
    “Gah!” he cried, stumbling back as he gripped his injured arm. It didn’t feel deep, but the blood still flowed and the pain still throbbed. Without a gun—hell, without a sword —he could only last so long. And if it wasn’t Adair’s blade that took him down, it would be a stray arrow or bullet. Time was running short and the cards were quickly getting stacked against him.
    For the first time since the start of this whole idiotic affair, Caraway hoped Gan would be there to save him in time.
    “You’re looking scared there, coppa,” Adair said with a grin.
    “Just looking too close at your ugly mug, scarface.”
    Adair grimaced. “Don’t you joke about that. That ain’t funny.”
    Caraway was able to avoid Adair’s stab, but the blood kept dripping down his arm and the lights were beginning to get a little dim.
    “What? Your face?” Caraway said with as much vehemence as he could muster. “I’m gonna have to disagree with ya there, buddy. Those big honking scars are pretty hysterical. How’d ya get ’em?”
    Adair’s eyes reddened with rage, his once easy and somewhat evil smile now faded into an angry glower. Launching forward, he swung his blade down at Caraway, who caught the saber with his left hand. Adair sliced down, lacerating deep into Caraway’s palm. Howling in pain, Caraway elbowed the loin-clothed mobster hard in the face. Blood burst out of the “Matador’s” nose, along with a tooth or two from his mouth, as he stumbled back toward the edge of the teller’s desk, stunned.
    Rushing forward, Caraway dove at Adair, throwing them both off the teller’s desk, away from the gunfight. Landing hard, Caraway felt a sharp pain pierce through his midsection. He looked at Adair, who gave him a toothless, bloody smile.
    “Somethin’ wrong, coppa?”
    Caraway tasted iron on his tongue and, glancing down at his stomach, saw the hilt of Adair’s sword pushing hard into his side.
    “Gaaaw… Hell…” Caraway groaned as he rolled over and collapsed to the ground, clutching the hilt as if that would change the circumstances. “Gaaaaww… Damn. Damn. Damn…”
    This wasn’t happening , he told himself. Lord, no, please, this wasn’t happening . He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad, this wasn’t supposed to happen. This pain wasn’t real. This wasn’t a sword in his side. He wasn’t going to die. Dammit, he wasn’t going to die. He had to tell Francesca he still loved her, he had to win her back. That’s what was supposed to happen. Things started to get fuzzy, going grey on the edges. Caraway watched as Adair stood up and climbed over him, laughing. Unsheathing a massive hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt, the “Matador” threw his head back, letting out a deafening war whoop as he brought the knife up, preparing for the killing blow.
    Caraway knew what was coming, much as he tried to pretend it wasn’t. Despite the cold sensations he began to feel around him and his fading vision, he refused to close his eyes in the face of death. He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad, dammit .
    Adair thrust the knife down, and before things went completely black, Caraway swore he saw Gan, still riding their borrowed horse, jumping over the bank teller desk, guns blazing.
    But that, he was sure, was only a hallucination.
     
     
     

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