“His hip was throbbing—all that standing—and he was still shaky from pulling the gun. He had moved reflexively, without thinking—the moment Wilde reached into his pocket, Grigsby’s hand had jumped to the Colt, surprising him as much as it had Wilde. Jesus, he hadn’t drawn down on anyone for years. No call for it. Now, alone in the hotel corridor, he could feel the tension percolating from his body. He’d held it in, ignored it, while he talked to Wilde. But now it was trickling away like sap from... a tree, leaving him limp and weak. He took a breath, let it out. He smiled. One thing, though—he was still pretty goddamn fast. Not as fast as he used to be, naturally. Not after all the years, all the wear and tear, all the booze. But still pretty goddamn fast. He adjusted his gunbelt with a self-satisfied tug. Not bad for an old man. By god, that deserved a drink. Sitting in the empty bar downstairs, staring at his glass of bourbon, Grigsby frowned. Could Wilde have done it? Killed and cut up Molly Woods and the others?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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