Hell on Wheels Read Free Page A

with her mugger, people started pulling cell phones from various pockets and running in their direction.
    The guy in the rugby jersey was the first on the scene, and he jumped on her assailant’s broad back, wrapping an arm around the guy’s meaty throat and squeezing until the mugger’s eyes—the only things visible inside that frightening mask—bugged out like a Saturday morning cartoon. Ali was suddenly sorry she ever compared Rugby Jersey guy to a giant bumblebee.
    “Get his legs!” Rugby Jersey yelled, and Mr. French Bread dove at the mugger’s knees, tackling him and sending the three of them sprawling onto the sidewalk in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs.
    Somehow her assailant managed to disentangle himself from the pile. He pushed his substantial bulk up off the concrete only to dart across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit by a speeding UPS truck in the process. For such a large man, he was surprisingly agile. The UPS driver slammed on his brakes with a squeal of melting rubber and leaned from his doorless truck in order to shake a fist at the fleeing man’s back.
    Ali dragged in a ragged breath and tried to keep sight of her assailant as he zigzagged around people and parked cars. Then she stopped breathing entirely, more stunned than if she’d been hit by lightning, when her elusive shadow suddenly emerged from Swanson’s Deli across the street.
    At least she thought it was him. She could never tell for sure because he always wore a baseball cap that effectively shielded his face. Still…this man had the same solid build, the same square jaw…
    Okay, it was getting too weird.
    “Hey!” she yelled at the guy as both Mr. French Bread and Rugby Jersey picked themselves up off the pavement.
    The man in the baseball cap gave no indication he heard her.
    “Hey, you!” she called again, stepping off the curb. She was gosh-darned sick and tired of every day feeling this sense of… paranoia . If she could just get a look at him, she might—
    The mysterious man took off like a shot.
    What? Was he really running away from her?
    When he hopped into a big, tough-looking SUV, quickly gunning the engine, she had her answer.
    He was running away from her.
    What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks?
    Just when she would’ve taken off after him, she was jerked back onto the sidewalk by Mr. French Bread. “Whoa, there,” the guy said, still trying to catch his breath. “The dude’s long gone. Don’t go getting yourself run over trying to catch him.”
    Mr. French Bread gave up attempting to appear collected and bent at the waist to put his hands on his knees and drop his head between his shoulders, panting like a dog in the summer heat.
    He thought she was going after her attacker, of course, which yeah, probably made a lot more sense than running after some elusive man whom she was sure had been shadowing her every move for the past three months.
    Laying a comforting hand on her savior’s sweaty shoulder, she reached into her purse—the mugger had not succeeded; score one for Alisa Morgan and her two unlikely heroes—and pulled out her BlackBerry. Zooming in, she snapped a quick photo of the SUV’s license plate right before it careened around the corner. Then she bent to peek into Mr. French Bread’s red, perspiring face.
    “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, glancing up to include Rugby Jersey. The guy was also blowing like a winded racehorse, leaning limply against the front window of the hardware store. Obviously neither of them was accustomed to much physical activity, which only made their actions all the more heroic. “You both risked an awful lot—”
    Rugby waved a hand, cutting her off. “Damsel in distress and all that,” he chuckled, wincing and grabbing his side.
    Great. Just what she’d always dreamed of being. Not.
    “Are you hurt?” she asked, dismayed by the thought of him getting injured while trying to save something as insignificant as a purse.
    “Nah.