Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [139]
“Tommy, what’s he doing?” Laura’s voice rang clear from the shadows.
At first Asha panicked, thinking she was slipping back into the past. Oh, mercy not now! Please not now, not when she needed all her focus to survive.
Monty’s head jerked around, staring into the inky darkness toward the motel. He heard her. Two forms materialized from the shadows—a man and a woman. The same instant the jukebox went totally nuts, hitting a groove in the record and sticking.
“Poor boy, you’re bound to die . . . poor boy, you’re bound to die . . . poor boy, you’re bound to die . . . poor boy, you’re bound to die . . .”
Asha dove for the bullets. Monty beat her. His arm slapped out and swiped them off the counter.
A brilliant white light shown from the road, as a car turned into the parking lot, the halogen headlights flooding the glass panes, almost blinding her. Not wasting a breath, she jerked up the soda feed off the fountain and sprayed Monty in the face as he sprang at her. And kept spraying.
The high beams came closer, and the whine of a car engine downshifting was clear over the blasting jukebox. She wanted to look, but didn’t dare take her eyes off Monty. With her free hand she snatched up drinking glasses stacked on the counter and tossed them at him. Most hit, bounced or shattered, but they only kept him at bay. Then she thought of the cooler behind her. As she backed up, the sprayer jerked in her hand; it wouldn’t reach any farther. Swinging out wildly, Monty caught the plastic hose stretched taught, yanked it, and almost pulled her off balance on her weak ankle. She released it fast, causing him to fall back a few steps until he could right himself. Opening the cooler’s glass door, she hid behind it, using it as a shield. Once more there was glass between her and those crocodile eyes. She now launched unopened Coors beer bottles at him; their weight hit with a solid impact.
There was a pounding at the glass door, then Jago’s voice called out, sending hot relief flooding through her. “Sometimes, the white knight does come in time,” she whispered the reassurance to herself.“even if his armor is a little tarnished.”
Still, Jago was locked out. The safety glass of the windows and steel reinforced door would permit him to see what was happening, but would hold him on that side. That wouldn’t stop Jago. He’d come. Somehow, he’d come. He kicked at the lock twice, the door bouncing from the force. But it held.
She was fast running out of bottles to toss. Time to stop hiding behind the glass cooler and come out swinging. Getting a good grip on one beer with her right hand, and snatching up two more, she came out swinging hard. Monty lunged forward, but she caught him on the side of the head with the first one. The second hit his chin, shattered, and drove him back.
She shifted the third beer for her best grip, caught him full in the face. Because of the angle, she likely broke his nose. Blood streamed down his mouth and chin. Reaching the serving cart, she shoved with all her weight, catching him in the middle of his stomach, and shoving him toward the jukebox. With the shattered glass and soda all over the floor, he struggled not to lose footing.
“I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, AND I BID YOU TO BURN!” The Wurlitzer roared out the start of Arthur Brown’s song, scaring Monty, just as it had frightened Jago the night they’d danced in the diner. Monty jumped. His foot came down inside the pail that Colin had left from working on the tiles. He clomped awkwardly, trying to shake it off. It was