Free No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) by Matt Hilton

window I heard the clunk of a car door shutting. I waited, heard the measured padding of feet up the steps and onto the porch, waited a few seconds more then yanked open the door.
    The guy standing before me was in his late forties or early fifties, about five-feet nine-inches tall, and with unruly greying brown hair. His eyes were bloodshot and almost forcing their way out the sockets. Earlier I’d told the detectives I’d be able to identify the prowler if I again saw him scrabbling over the wall out back. Now I wasn’t as certain of a positive ID, because from the icy chill that went through my guts, I would also swear this was the same man. But unless he was insane, he wouldn’t present himself at Clayton’s door to ask if he could please have back his misplaced glove. Not that that was what he did. No. On seeing me, he took a jerk backwards, landed solidly on his heel, and shoved a hand quickly inside his jacket front.
    Maybe I should have drawn my gun before opening the door.

8
     
    Drawing my gun would have proved a matter of a second, and firing two bullets into the man’s chest a half second more. It would probably take longer for him to fall backwards on the porch, wheezing out his last breath. In the same short space of time, he too could draw his gun from inside his coat, and similarly put a round in me. Sometimes mortality is measured in instants, and there are no guarantees who would be the one left standing afterwards.
    Instead of reaching for my SIG, I lunged forward, my left hand snapping out and grasping his hand as it dipped in his jacket. I yanked his hand out, my fingers curled around the base of his thumb, and my own thumb-tip digging between the metacarpal bones. I rotated his hand outwards, locking it painfully at the wrist and elbow, even as my right hand shot in and grasped his trachea with crushing force. The guy gasped, and his spittle covered my face in a fine spray.
    A quick anticlockwise rotation of his trapped hand would ruin his day; a concerted squeeze to his throat would finish it totally. But there were factors piling in on me that halted further injury. First, I could see no gun in his hand, just a folded piece of paper. Second, the man was already swooning out of shock. Third, and probably most importantly, I heard Cole’s yelp and the rat-a-tat padding of his small feet down the stairs.
    ‘Don’t hurt him!’ the boy squealed. ‘Please don’t hurt him, Joe, it’s only my Uncle Parker!’
    I glanced at Cole. He was a few feet behind me, bent at the waist, head rammed forward on his straining neck like a hirsute tortoise. His green eyes were huge, and strings of saliva meshed his open lips.
    ‘It’s OK, Cole. I’m not going to hurt him,’ I reassured the boy. Whether my captive heard, or understood, I couldn’t tell, because he was almost sinking to his butt. I relaxed my grip on his throat, grabbed his collar instead and hauled him to standing. Now my hold on his wrist helped steady him. I steadied him until some cognizance came back in his eyes. Cole had moved closer, was almost pressing up against my thigh, but it was so he could check his uncle was unhurt. ‘He’ll be fine in a second or two,’ I added.
    ‘G…get off me…’ said the man.
    ‘If I let go you’ll fall on your arse,’ I told him.
    ‘I’m…’ He probed at his reddened throat with his free hand and found everything was still in the correct place, though not necessarily in full working order. ‘I’m…OK. Let go of me.’
    I propped him against the doorframe, releasing my hold, while scooting Cole clear of us, should his uncle turn obstreperous and require controlling again.
    ‘Jesus, man, who the hell are you anyway?’ the man said.
    ‘I’m looking after Cole,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
    He didn’t answer my question. ‘Where’s Andrew?’
    ‘Out,’ I said. ‘What do you want with him?’
    He worked his aching wrist, while shaking his head at me. ‘You must be the damn bodyguard