HammerLocke by Jack Barnao

Author:Jack Barnao
Language: eng, eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: e-reads
Published: 2001-01-10T16:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 13

I holstered my gun and pulled my knife, slashing the ropes off his wrists and ankles. He groaned and seemed to fall apart, flopping into a totally relaxed posture, fingers half open, legs sprawling, reaction against the cramp he had been suffering while he was tied. After a second or so he got control of himself and rolled up into a sitting position, rubbing his hands weakly. I grabbed him by the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. "We've got to get out of here. Let's go."

He mumbled something and tried to walk but his feet were still numb and he fell. I threw him over my shoulder in a fireman's lift and headed up the steps to floor level. He moaned at each step I took and made a feeble effort to adjust his position over my shoulder. He had internal injuries I guessed. Whoever had worked him over had worked him all the way over, ribs and gut as well as the head. It had been a professional bashing, probably with a solid purpose, like finding out where Herbie was. And that made me think, even as I lifted him up and listened for sounds in the warehouse. Why had Carla's friends lied to me? Why hadn't they told me Herbie wasn't there? Had they just been afraid their own men would chicken out on the attack? It seemed they were right but I hadn't come to Italy to act as cannon fodder for the Mob. They could carry out their own bloody rescues if this was the way they handled things.

I paused below floor level, drawing my gun and snapping a couple of quick glances over the top and all around to check that the coast was clear. It seemed to be. I climbed the last five steps and toppled my find into the armchair. "Wait there," I told him, "I'll find us some way to leave."

His English was gone now, he was in shock but he nodded and said, "Sì," and sat still, too beat even to rub his numbed wrists.

I ran down the length of the warehouse and glanced out of the front window. Carla's car was down the block about fifty paces and I could see the glow of a cigarette on the driver's side. She was waiting like a good little mobster for the boys to come marching home. Fine. That much had gone right in the plan.

I went to the big door at the front. It had a little Judas door set in it and I half opened it and waved my flashlight at her, keeping my face out of sight. There was a thirty-second wait, and then I heard the car approach, then the door opening, and the tritch-tratch of her high heels crossing the cobbles.

She was saying something haughty in Italian until I reached out and grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside. That made her shriek, but it was only a tiny noise and it died when she saw my gun.

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