What Time Devours by A. J. Hartley Page A

his home. But he would have to get over the prone intruder first.
    Thomas came barreling down the stairs like a charging rhino, but the intruder held his ground, and it was only when he was too close to stop that Thomas saw the flash of bright steel in his hand: a professional-looking combat knife, drawn from God knew where. He slashed with it and Thomas felt a long wound open along his forearm. The pain flared as if the knife were hot, and Thomas pulled back. He was still a couple of steps higher than his attacker, and his instinct was to kick, hard as he could.
    His bare foot caught the man on the side of his head, knocking him back into the hall. Thomas felt the blood coursing down his arm and threw himself at the prostrate knifeman.
    The intruder stabbed upward with his blade, and Thomas twisted away, immediately regretting the attack. The blade scythed through air, and Thomas landed awkwardly on his side. Less than a second later he was scrambling to his feet and looking frantically for the gun.
    It was lying half under the couch by the living room fireplace. He took two loping strides and flung himself onto it, turning and aiming at the open doorway into the hall as he did so.
    Then there was darkness again. The intruder had shut off the lights. Thomas squatted there, the gun trained on the open doorway, waiting.
    For a moment, nothing happened, then a dark blur sped past the doorway. As it moved, Thomas glimpsed the muzzle of another gun—smaller, a revolver—as its black eye opened with a flare of yellow-white brilliance and another roar of sound. Thomas shot back blindly, squeezing the trigger twice. It was only then that he realized he was hit.

CHAPTER 16
    The shock came first. Then the pain. Both surprised him with their intensity. The bullet had gone into his right shoulder. He didn’t know if it had passed right through, but he feared his clavicle was broken. He slumped against the wall, wondering vaguely—absurdly—if his blood was staining the paint. He wasn’t going to die, not unless the gunman came back to finish him off. Not tonight. Whatever damage the bullet had done, there was no spurting, no loss of air, which meant that nothing major had been ruptured. There was only the pain.
    Well, that’s good, he thought . Only the raging, searing, screaming pain. Three cheers for me. Hip hip . . .
    He had to get to a phone. The only one downstairs was the portable in the kitchen. It was only a few yards away, but he didn’t like the idea of crawling back into the dark hallway. He had no idea where the gunman was, and in what shape. Thomas had fired twice. The automatic was large and heavy, a nine-millimeter, he thought. If either round had hit him, the intruder could be dead or dying.
    Or he could be sitting out there, waiting to see if you come crawling out so he can finish you off .
    Thomas listened, but he couldn’t hear anything over his own breathing. Was that getting harder? He inhaled and felt a stab of pain, not in the shoulder where he was hit, but lower, more central. He breathed again, and the pain came back. The breath itself was weak too, like he was trying to suck air in through a straw.
    Maybe this is shock , he thought.
    His hands and face felt cool and clammy, and he was sweating more than the fight merited. But it was his breathing that bothered him. It was fast and shallow, and it seemed to be getting harder. He could also feel himself relaxing despite the pain, his whole body getting heavy as if he were starting to float away on a warm, dark tide.
    Sleep , he thought. That’s all I need. Rest.
    His eyelids fluttered. Then closed.
    He fought back to consciousness. His eyes snapped open and he took a deep breath that felt like it tore something in his chest. He wasn’t getting enough air. He gasped another mouthful, but it was clear now. His lungs weren’t filling properly.
    Something was wrong. His delight that he was merely in pain had been premature. The bullet had nicked something