Read 3 A Brewski for the Old Man for Free Online Page A

together enough to drive — to get away from him. Two blocks down Blossom Avenue, I pulled over to the curb, opened the door and threw up.
    I pulled a handful of tissues from the box under the dash and was still wiping my mouth when he hit me from behind.

C H A P T E R 8
    The impact threw me forward against the wheel and then jerked me back. No seatbelt, I’d just wanted to get away. I scrambled for it now.
    Another hit but not as hard this time. In the rearview, I saw him getting out of his truck. I grabbed the door and slammed it shut, hitting the lock.
    The pickup squealed forward as Ray John’s hand reached for the door handle. “Oh god, oh god,” I wailed, hanging on to the wheel and watching in the mirror as Ray John ran back to his SUV.
    That’s why I didn’t see the guy backing out on the street in front of me. The old fool was just there, taking up two-thirds of the road, but then who expects a madwoman to be doing fifty in a subdivision. I only missed the Nissan by jolting over the curb, churning up someone’s lawn and then rocketing back onto the road.
    Ray John followed my path.
    There was a stop sign ahead, one I had to obey at a four-lane street full of traffic. “Oh god, oh god,” I wailed again. If I stopped for traffic would Ray John smash out a window and drag me out of the truck? But I had to stop. There was no way I could shoot into the traffic without stopping and waiting for a break in traffic. Both moves seemed equally dangerous.
    I stopped. Watching to my left and watching for danger behind me in equal measure.
    Ray John got out of the SUV. I slipped out the Beretta, clutching it in both hands like my daddy taught me and turned to the back window, holding the gun up nice and high so Ray John could see it.
    Ray John saw my friend. He raised his head like a bull that scents something strange. Big but not stupid, his forward charge stopped. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was supposed to be in charge. I smiled in triumph before I turned away and slipped out into traffic, cutting off a van and pissing off yet another person.
    I felt victorious for about a nanosecond. A normal guy would’ve backed off right there but Ray John wasn’t done yet. He zigged and zagged through traffic and was on my tail again within a block. He stayed there all the way down Tamiami Trail, dangerously close, changing lanes when I did, running a red light to shadow me while horns blared and curses were shouted out windows.
    Surely someone would call the cops.
    Then I made a near fatal mistake. I headed over the south bridge and back onto Cypress Island and home…to safety. But not this time. There was no safe harbor for me.

C H A P T E R 9
    Warning alarms sounded as we approached the bridge. I watched the slowly descending arm, trying to judge. Could I beat it? I pressed the gas, hoping to slip under at the last possible second.
    I was too far away — I hadn’t a chance. I jolted to a stop as the candy-striped arm of the bridge shuttered into place three feet beyond my front bumper. And then the swing bridge began to open at an infuriating creep. That’s where things went really wrong.
    Ray John was right behind me. In front of me only the wooden barrier and twenty feet of pavement stood between me and a forty-foot drop into dark waters. I was trapped. I felt his bumper butt up against Jimmy’s little pickup. “No, no.” I straightlegged the brake, trying to keep the truck in place but even with the brakes locked the light pick-up was no match for the massive hunk of steel pushing it forward. Sweat rolled down my face, stinging my eyes, but no way was I going to take my hand off the wheel to wipe it away. Ray John backed away and then hit me again.
    The pickup jerked forward into the barrier.
    “You son of a bitch, you aren’t going to do this.” I slammed the gearshift into park. I grabbed the Beretta and swung around to face him. “I am not going to die.”
    He saw the gun and ducked beneath