Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) by Jeremy Robinson Read Free Book Online

manage to raise it and look at my watch. 5:30 A.M. Sonofa — . Through the curtained window, I see a clenched fist rise up, ready to slam the door. I don’t think I could take a point-blank knock without toppling over in agony.
    “I’m here!” I shout, grumpily unlocking the door and throwing it open. “Isn’t there a raccoon in a fence somewhere that you should be deal— ”
    My eyes clear and I get a good look at the police officer standing on the front porch. “Holy.” I say it aloud, but manage not to voice the thought that accompanied the word. Did Watson send me a strip-o-cop? I quickly decide that’s not the case. This woman isn’t wearing make-up. She’s just naturally stunning. Her wavy orange hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Freckles fringe her high cheeks. And her eyes—they’re technically brown, but they’re so close to the color of her hair that they seem to glow.
    Before I can ogle her tightly fitting uniform, and the curves beneath it, she says, “Looks like I have my Sasquatch suspect.”
    I look for the bear, but don’t see it. She’s talking about me. I look down and find myself dressed only in black boxer-briefs. How did I not notice I wasn’t dressed? And why am I covered in streaks of mud and pine needles?
    “We had some complaints. Lots of hooting and hollering in the woods last night. People around here are on a Sasquatch kick, but I don’t buy that, do you?”
    All I can do is laugh, but that hurts, so it turns into a wince.
    “You just pass gas?” the woman asks.
    She catches me off guard. “What? No!”
    “Made kind of a funny face,” she says. I look for a hidden grin, but she’s deadpan. “Been drinking, chief?”
    “Chief?”
    “Answer the question.”
    I lean forward and read the name tag, careful not to glance below it more than once. “Listen, Officer Collins.”
    “Sheriff Collins,” she corrects.
    “Huh,” I say, a bit surprised. “Sheriff Collins, drinking in the privacy of your own home isn’t illegal. Nor is getting shit-faced.” Probably shouldn’t have said that last bit, but too late now.
    “No,” she agrees with a snarky smile. “But running around the woods in your underwear, singing Dude Looks Like a Lady isn’t exactly in the privacy of your own home, is it? Neither is discharging a firearm.”
    Damnit .
    “I wasn’t drinking when—”
    Double damnit . I just confirmed that I’m the one with the gun. That I was drinking isn’t really up for debate.
    Her hand moves slowly toward the gun holstered on her hip. Most hung-over, still buzzed people wouldn’t notice, but I’m not your average drunk. Details like this are what I’m good at. But she needs to know I’m not a threat. “I’m DHS,” I say.
    Her hand pauses, but doesn’t retreat. “You’re Department of Homeland Security? Didn’t know they were having trouble recruiting people.”
    I’m confused for a moment, but then I read between the lines and hear the unspoken jab about lowering standards.
    “Ha. Ha,” I say. “I can get my badge.”
    “Please do.”
    As I turn to find my shorts, I catch sight of her hand unclip the sidearm. For a small town cop, she’s not taking any chances. Suppose that makes sense though, drunks with guns are never a good combination. And I’m a stranger. She probably knows everyone in town by name. Her next question confirms this.
    “You a friend of the Watsons?”
    “I work with Ted,” I say.
    “Haven’t met him.”
    “He’s Bill and Diane’s son,” I say from the bedroom where I find my cargo shorts. Bending over to pick up the shorts is agony, but I manage to grab them, slip them over my ankles and pull them up. I find my yellow T-shirt on the bed and pull it on, too. My maroon cap is on the nightstand. I feel momentarily embarrassed that super-babe officer saw my receding hairline, but then again, she saw me shirtless, which I’m pretty sure isn’t a bad thing. Despite my casual disposition, I keep in good shape.
    “I