Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

I stumble to the door, pausing with a hand against the wall, trying to steady myself and clear my head. My arm feels weighted by a concrete block, but I 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 said I hadn’t met him,” she says from the living room. “Not that I didn’t know who he was.”

I shake my head. I can’t decide if I like her smart-ass commentary or hate it. She’s still in the doorway when I return. I dig into my pocket, fish out my badge and flip it open like an old pro. She’s not impressed.

While inspecting the badge, she asks, “Why did you discharge your firearm Mister...” She reads my name from the badge. “...Hudson?”

“There was a bear,” I say.

“You realize this is not bear hunting season?”

“I didn’t shoot the bear. The back door was open. She was in here with a pair of cubs when I opened the door.”

I see a flicker of understanding in her eyes. If she lives out here, she knows how mamma bear reacted.

I point to the ruined screen door. “She knocked me through the door. Nearly took my head off. Scratched the hell out of Betty.”

She stiffens. “You have a woman with you? Is she hurt?”

“No,” I say and then realize I really don’t want to tell this woman who Betty is, but I’ve got no choice. “Betty...is my truck.”

She steps back and turns to the truck. The claw marks are easy to see. “You named your truck, Betty?”