I woke to the sound of ripping, of slashing, of a horror movie being played with the volume low in the very next room, and I knew, right away and without doubt, they had come to slit my throat and steal my shoes. As the realization hit me, I, quite sensibly, quailed and whimpered in my bed. But then I gathered my wits, what precious few were scattered about me, and rolled off the mattress until I thumped onto the floor as quietly as a bear falling out of a tree. On my stomach, facing the door, I considered my options. Grab a weapon and attack like my hero, Ulysses S. Grant? It sounded right, except I had always avoided guns—yank one out and the next thing you know it might actually go off—so the closest thing I had to a weapon was my pillow. Grant could have taken Fort Donelson with less, but I wasn’t Grant. Hide? I considered the bedroom closet, the space under my bed, behind a bureau. I had behaved with admirable stealth so far with my whimpering and rolling and thumping.
What do You think about Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel)?
