CHAPTER THIRTY
Reid did not wait around for any orders to freeze or halt or put his hands in the air. Instead he dropped his spent pistol and backpedaled, grunting in pain as he shouldered his way back into the Macicka club.
Several of the patrons stood now, confused, trying to make sense of what had happened through the alcohol-marinated brains. Reid ignored them, shoving past them toward the rear of the building. There had to be a back door. He found one, an entranceway into a small storeroom of cheap liquor that ended in a windowless security door that had to lead out of the building.
He pushed through it to find himself face to face with the barrel of a silver Colt Python.
Reid skidded to a halt and froze, hands slightly aloft. Then he looked past the barrel and sucked in a breath.
