Excerpt from The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

It would be good to do this without being chewed on too much.

He went out to his truck and found a cordless trouble light, some good rope, and a length of old handrail. White oak, an inch and three-quarters thick, maybe eighteen inches long. Nice and solid in the hand. Which was a help when you were contemplating something spectacularly stupid.

Serenaded by the growls from the crawl space, he sat down on the toolbox and took out his knife while young Charlie Johnson watched.

Not that Peter wanted an audience. This certainly could get ugly.

"Don't you have someplace to go, Charlie? School or something?"

Charlie glanced at a cheap black digital watch strapped to his skinny wrist. "No, sir," he said. "Not yet I don't."

Peter just shook his head. He didn't like it, but he understood. He figured he wasn't that far from twelve years old himself.

He cut three short lengths from his rope and left the remainder long, ten or twelve feet. Tied one end of a short piece of rope tight to each end of the oak rail. Looped the last short rope and the remainder through his belt a single time, so he could get at it quickly.

Then he looked up at Charlie again. "You better get out of here, kid. If this goes bad, you don't want to be around."

Charlie said, "I'm not a dang kid. Sir. I'm the man of the family." He reached inside the door, brought out an aluminum baseball bat, and demonstrated his swing. "That's my dang porch. My little brother, too. I ain't going nowhere."

Charlie's dad always had the same look behind the Humvee's .50 turret gun. Eyes wide open and ready for trouble. Daring any motherfucker to pop up with an RPG or Kalashnikov or whatever. But when his wife, Dinah, sent cookies, Big Jimmy Johnson—known inevitably to the platoon's jokers as Big Johnson, or just plain Big—was always the last to eat one.

Peter missed him.

He missed them all. The dead and the living.

He said, "Okay, Charlie. I can respect that." He put his eyes on the boy and held them there. "But if that dog gets loose you get your butt in that house, you hear me? And if you hit me with that bat I'm going to be seriously pissed."

"Yessir." Charlie nodded. "Can't promise anything, sir. But I'll do my best."

Peter smiled to himself. At least the kid was honest.

After that there was nothing more to do but lean back and kick out the slats on one side of the porch, letting in more daylight. The space was still small. The tank engine in the shadows got louder. But no sign of the dog. Must be lurking in that trash pile in the far corner.

Not that it mattered. He wasn't turning away from the challenge. He was just planning how to succeed.

The familiar taste filled his mouth, a coppery flavor, like blood. He felt the adrenaline lift and carry him forward. It was similar to the static, rising. The body's preparation for fight or flight. It was useful.

He peered under the porch, and the static rose higher still. The static didn't care about the snarling dog. It cared about the enclosure. It jangled his nerves, raced his heart, tightened his chest, and generally clamored for his attention. It wanted him to stay outside in the open air, in the daylight.

Breathing deeply, Peter took the piece of oak and banged it on the wood frame of the porch. It rang like a primitive musical instrument.

Despite everything, he was smiling.

"Hey, dog," he called into the darkness. "Watch your ass, I'm coming in!"

And in he went, headfirst on his elbows and knees, the stick in one hand and the trouble light in the other.

What, you want to live forever?

Excerpted from The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.