Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Page A

reassure myself it’s still there before studying the room in more detail. The wooden chairs are old and uncomfortable, built in an age when craftsmen wanted them to last.
    I lift one off the stack, lay it on its side, and kick at a point where one of the legs meets the seat. The ancient glue crumbles into powder, and two more kicks reward me with a skull-crushing club of solid oak.
    Next I check the abandoned luggage, cutting through any locked straps with my knife. Unfortunately, I don’t find anything of interest except for an antique hand mirror in a solid silver frame. If I was up against a vain werewolf it could be a lifesaver, but my enemies appear to be human, if just barely.
    With my club and knife at the ready, I move to the door and study the hinges. All three hinges are on my side. I slip the blade under the bottom hinge pin and wiggle it up and down. The pin creaks and lifts about an eighth of an inch before stopping. I flip the blade over so that its thicker, stronger edge is now resting under the head of the pin and ease it up with both hands.
    It takes some muscle and sweat, but eventually the pin pulls completely free.
    I move to the middle pin.

    When the handle turns and the door starts to open, I leverage the opposite side with my wooden club to knock it off its hinges. The heavy door falls into the room, yanking my captor with it and eliciting a startled grunt.
    Standing on a chair beside the now-open doorway, I capitalize on the confusion by swinging my club toward where I expect the first bouncer’s head to be, but I misjudge. The club smashes into the doorjamb instead. Wood splinters and the vibrations send a shockwave of pain down my arm, causing me to drop the club.
    I leap off the chair and instantly make a dash for freedom down the hallway, my knife ready to slash anyone who gets between the exit and me. But as I run, I see the two bouncers slumped on the floor.
    And just as I realize that they’re both unconscious, I hear my name being called by a familiar voice.
    â€œDixie! Wait up.”
    I skid to a halt and turn to see Pinch brushing wood splinters out of his hair. He grins as he says, “You just about knocked my head off.”
    I smile in response, realizing that the only reason my plan didn’t work was that I was expecting a taller man.
    â€œSo I take it we’re not getting that beer?” he says as he closes the gap between us.
    â€œBeer’s lousy here anyway. I couldn’t even finish mine.”
    â€œGood to know,” he says. “They don’t do karaoke either, and jam night is sea shanties only. Pitiful.”
    I can’t help myself as I rush forward and wrap him in a hug, fighting not to collapse onto my knees in a fit of sobbing. Pinch squeezes me back until I feel my strength and resolve returning.
    When I’m ready, I let him go and wipe my eyes.
    â€œHow did you find me?” I ask.
    â€œYou left a message, remember? And when I found myself being stood up, I asked the bartender if he’d seen you. Man was nice enough to point the way.”
    I glance down at the unconscious bouncers.
    â€œAnd these two?”
    Pinch shrugs. “Nap time.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have called,” I say. “But I’m so glad you’re here.”
    â€œLet’s find a nicer bar. You can buy me a drink to say thanks.”
    â€œI can’t leave yet.”
    â€œOh? It would seem like the prudent thing to do.”
    â€œI know, but I need to take someone with me.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA young girl with pink hair.”
    â€œI didn’t spot her in the bar.”
    â€œThen she’s in a room.”
    â€œNo shortage of those.”
    â€œThe guy at reception will know which one.”
    Pinch raises an eyebrow. “Will he tell you?”
    â€œI can be very persuasive.”
    Pinch grins again and gestures for me to lead the way.

    Unfortunately, the only route I know to get to the lobby is