Chapter 8 - The Back Door
The shooter dropped with a sharp, ragged yell, his gun clattering across the linoleum. The second man swung his weapon toward the bed, but Mark was already sliding across the floor, driving his shoulder hard into the guy’s ribs.
They hit the wall together, knocking a framed print of a cheap beach scene onto the carpet.
The guy was bigger, faster, and hadn't spent the last six hours crying in the rain. He grabbed Mark’s throat with one gloved hand, pinning him against the drywall, while his right hand brought the gun up toward Mark’s chin.
Mark reached out blindly, his fingers searching for anything on the nightstand. His hand closed around the heavy glass lamp. He smashed it against the side of the man’s head.
Glass exploded. The man grunted, his grip loosening just an inch—enough for Mark to drop, kick the back of the guy's knee, and dash through the bathroom door.
He slammed the deadbolt just as a heavy slug punched a clean round hole through the cheap wood, right where his chest had been a second ago.
Mark didn't look for a window. Motel bathrooms didn't have them.
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He stepped into the fiberglass bathtub, leaned his back against the wall, raised his boots, and kicked the rusted aluminum exhaust fan grate off the wall with everything he had.
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