She slowed just enough to let the Fiat gain on her. Her pursuer, predictably, pulled up next to her on her right. He rolled his window down as if to yell to her. To her surprise, the passenger leaned over the driver to point his gun at her. These guys were a lot more serious than she thought and for the first time she realized she was in real danger.
20
Morgan spread his hands on the table, hoping to reassure the man holding a gun against his neck. “This is hardly a combat situation, J.D. You got your boys killing on contract now?”
“Stone wants to see your corpse, buddy, and that’s a fact,” Griffith said, “but I think, if your behavior is reasonable, we’ll take you to him as is and let him do the dirty deed himself, if he can.”
Morgan found Griffith’s grin infuriating. He was too damned confident. He controlled the street, but Morgan wondered if he had covered the inside of the little cafe. He hoped not, because it was his only option. He would have to play it that way and hope something turned up. He started his ploy by grimacing and clutching his stomach in apparent pain. He rose slowly when Griffith did. The waiter/gunman began patting Morgan for weapons.
“You going to wave your hardware and mine around out here in the open?” Morgan asked.
“Good point, sport. Let’s move this party into the cafe.”
Morgan groaned again, and continued to reach for his gut as they walked into the small Greek luncheonette. A counter stood on the left and half a dozen tables crowded the floor, too close together. Each table was dressed in a long white tablecloth and surrounded by four chairs. The smell of burning garlic rose out of the floorboards but no lunchtime chatter greeted them. To Morgan’s dismay, the place was deserted.
“Were you expecting somebody in here to use as a distraction?” Griffith asked, locking the door behind them. “I rented the place for the afternoon. You know, for a private party.”
Morgan could not believe how quickly the opposition had moved. Oh well. At least the gun-toting waiter had become accustomed to Morgan reaching to his waist. Morgan was no longer getting jabbed in his back each time his arm moved. But now Griffith, facing him, pulled a forty-five caliber automatic from a side rig.
“Okay, sport,” Griffith said with a smirk, “what are you carrying?”
“How long you known me, man? You know what I carry. I’m a creature of habit.”
“That’ll be the death of you one day,” Griffith said. “Now, unzip that jacket. Tommy, there’s a Hi-Power under his left arm. Grab that will you?”
The waiter reached under Morgan’s windbreaker and slid the nine-millimeter out of its holster.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a knife on the other side,” Griffith said. Tommy nodded and pulled on Morgan’s left shoulder to partially turn him. Morgan turned just enough, and Tommy reached forward awkwardly, his left hand going across the front of Morgan’s body as it slid under his windbreaker. This was the moment.
“What’d you do, poison me?” Morgan asked through clenched teeth. He bent farther than before, again grasping his own waist. As he did, he gripped his belt buckle in his right hand. With a short tug, it came loose from his belt.
As the buckle came away, so did a three inch, black, razor sharp, double-edged steel blade. The belt buckle served as the square handle of a push dagger, concealed in the leather of his wide belt.
Morgan turned half way to his left, thrusting up under his own left arm into the exposed ribs of the gunman behind him. The blade slid in high enough to find Tommy’s heart. The man did not even have time to moan before death took him.
Morgan knew that Griffith could not really see what was happening. Morgan’s back faced him for an instant, and Morgan’s jacket cloaked the action. Griffith might be staring into his accomplice’s astonished face just long enough for Morgan to spin back toward him, very fast. Morgan snapped his right arm out in a wide arc, and it was a blur as it swung past Griffith’s outstretched arm. Griffith’s pistol dropped from nerveless fingers, and blood burst from the heel of his palm. He had time for one short grunt of pain before Morgan’s left fist, powered by all the rage an old soldier can hold, crashed into his jaw, sending him tumbling over a table.
Morgan knew he had been lucky. First of all, Griffith and his backup man were guilty of unforgivable carelessness. The idiot behind Morgan had stretched out his left arm, leaving his heart side ribs wide open. And Griffith had been close enough so that, after the killing thrust, Morgan’s back swing had just caught Griffith’s gun hand. Morgan had continued the spin and his left cross put Griffith over the table and into dreamland for a while.
Ignoring his aching knuckles, Morgan tucked Griffith’s larger automatic into his belt, then recovered his own. After wiping the push dagger on the dead man’s shirt, he returned it to its belt scabbard. While Griffith was dazed, Morgan performed a quick body search, netting a twenty-five caliber pocket pistol and a big folding knife.
Tossing Griffith’s backup weapons aside, he roughly yanked the ex-Marine to his feet. When his eyes snapped open, Griffith found the cold steel muzzle of Morgan’s pistol resting on the tip of his nose. He raised his hands slowly, giving Morgan a half smile of respect. Morgan released his shirt and sat down on a table for two.
“So you sold me out.” Morgan practically spat the words out.
“Nothing personal,” Griffith said, trying for a light tone. “Strictly business. You’d have done the same thing.”
Morgan let that pass. “And what was the plan, really?” Moving his pistol, he motioned Griffith into a chair. “Were you going to just kill me in here and deliver my head to Stone for a fat reward?”
“No, man,” Griffith said, tying a cloth napkin around his hand and wrist as he talked. “I was just going to deliver you. Whole. I’m a soldier, not a hit man. I figured, if Stone wanted you taken out, he’d have to do it himself. He could take care of you face to face, if he’s got the balls.”
“Sounds like fun,” Morgan said. “Why don’t you just take me to him. Now, I know you’ve got the front covered. So we’ll just go upstairs and across the roof. Then we can go have a little rendezvous with our mutual friend with the white hair.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Griffith’s face dropped into a genuine hard look. Morgan’s twisted into a snarl. They stared into each other’s eyes for ten long seconds. Morgan knew that he was facing a tough, hard man, a veteran of many battles and a man who, like Morgan himself, had walked with death every day for years. A bullet in the brain would hold no terror for him. But maybe, just maybe, something else would.
Without breaking eye contact, Morgan reached under his right arm an exaggerated slow motion and pulled his fighting knife free. Mindful of the distance, he switched his pistol to his left hand, the knife to his right. He held the flat of the blade toward Griffith. A light beam flashed off the steel, making the seated man blink.
“Hold out your left hand,” Morgan commanded in a cold monotone. Griffith clenched his teeth and lifted his arm out straight toward his captor. One tiny bead of sweat swelled from his forehead and rolled down into his left eye. He blinked twice, his gaze brushing over the corpse lying behind Morgan. Quickly his eyes snapped back to the Morgan’s grim face.