Chapter 29
HIS BACK to the concrete wall, Reamer raised the mop handle, holding it like a baseball bat, with the cloth head close to him, ready to crack my skull.
I threw myself into park, feet scrabbling on the tile to stay out of his reach. The rubber soles on my shoes squeaked on the ceramic floor, my arms windmilled, and I lurched to a halt inches outside Reamer’s range. A broom handle isn’t a flamethrower or even a baseball bat, but isn’t harmless. You can grab someone who’s waving a weapon—if you have a partner, or some way to catch the weapon. Working alone, I’d have to wait for him to charge and hope I could both evade his swing long enough to move in and seize him.
Reamer’s wide bloodshot eyes glanced at me, at the open door behind me, back at my face, towards the ceiling, and
