Stolen Heritage by Robert Brown

Author:Robert Brown [Brown, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-01T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Heinrich did the only thing he could do in that situation—dove behind a table, then scurried past some people making a panicked rush for the door and to the cover of the bar, which fortunately had an opening right next to him. He stumbled over the bartender, who had already hunkered down, and scrambled farther along behind the bar to get around to Niko’s flank.

That was, assuming Niko was still where he had been. The bar was such a torrent of sound—gunshots, screams, breaking glass—that Heinrich had no idea what was going on but didn’t dare poke up his head yet.

When he did, he did it with two full bottles of ouzo in his hands, figuring he’d give Niko Marinos a taste of his own medicine.

At first he couldn’t see the guy. People had hit the deck, clustering under tables or crawling for the front and back doors. One of the old men lay on the ground, gripping his bloodied arm and letting out a sustained wail.

Adonis crouched behind an overturned table. The detective ducked around the side to fire.

A muzzle flare from behind a screeching woman told him where Niko was. He was using the chick as a human shield. His shot missed, and Adonis ducked back around the table, unable to return fire.

Heinrich decided this was no time to be gentlemanly. That woman was going to get it in the next few seconds if he didn’t take action, so he wound up and threw the first bottle of ouzo with all his might.

He got Niko in the side of the head. Unfortunately, the shards sprayed all over the hostage too, cutting her face and shoulder. Heinrich winced. Why was he such a disaster around women?

Well, he had probably saved her life. Niko rolled away, shaking his head, and then turned to aim at this new attacker. The woman had the presence of mind to scramble away.

And Heinrich had enough time to throw the second bottle.

He missed Niko’s head and the bottle bounced off the bastard’s shoulder. The ex-soldier grunted, aimed, and fired as Heinrich ducked back behind the bar.

Which turned out to not be bulletproof. The bullet tore a neat hole through the front of the bar and shattered a bottle of wine next to Heinrich’s head, spattering him with red liquid.

Another shot, but no new bullet hole appeared. Heinrich crawled a few feet along the bar, picked up another couple of bottles, and leaped back up.

The fight was over. Niko Marinos lay on the floor, choking on his own blood from a gaping wound to the throat. Adonis stood on the other side of the room, still aiming the barrel of his Beretta.

A door at the back of the bar burst open. The two uniformed police officers who had been guarding the back exit came through it.

“A little late, boys,” Heinrich grumbled.

What happened next was almost as ugly as the fight in the bar. More police came and sealed off the crime scene. Ambulances wailed through

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