He said, “Let’s take ’em, Archie.”
Archie said, “You’re on.”
—
The trick was to prevent being mobbed by a concerted rush.
The Van Dorns used their long reach and prize ring footwork to keep them at bay, darting in, dropping three more men with powerhouse punches, and backing lightly away. It looked as if five or six still standing were reconsidering their future when an enormous oil hand easily as big as Big Pete Straub lumbered up.
“Who wants it first?”
“Start with me,” said Isaac Bell, flashing forward, faking a left jab, and throwing a roundhouse right that flung the oil hand flat on his back. But as hard as he hit the ground, it seemed to have no effect. The giant shook his head like a dray horse annoyed by a fly, sprang to his feet, and charged. Bell took his measure, spotted his fists rise, which exposed his solar plexus, and lined up a straight left that would take advantage of the momentum.
Suddenly the man clutched his chest.
He lurched at Bell as if shoved from behind by a mighty force. The burst of unnatural speed caught Bell unaware. Before the tall detective could throw a punch or sidestep the charge, the giant slammed into him.
Three hundred pounds’ deadweight drove Isaac Bell to the ground.
Hot liquid splashed his face.
Rabbit stew, he thought in a crazy tenth of a second ended by a rifle shot. He heard a second shot. Lead whistled. A muzzle flash lit the night, and the sniper’s third shot clanged off Edna’s cook pot.
“Down!” he yelled.
Archie swept Nellie and Edna off their feet. Bell levered out from under the giant. The man did not try to hold him but flopped over with his chest spouting a fountain of heart blood that glittered in the firelight.
The dying brawler had jumped into the path of a bullet meant for Bell.
10
Take off your shoe,” said the assassin.
Big Pete Straub glared down the rifle barrel aimed at his head and weighed his chances of wrapping his mitts around the neck of this man who had played him for a sucker. Not good.
Slowly, he unlaced his boot, biding his time, gathering his enormous frame for an overwhelming rush, figuring to take a bullet or even two before he crushed the life out of him.
“And your sock.”
Straub tugged off a dirty sock and reached for his other boot. Bare feet? Why?
“Leave it on. One’s enough.”
“What in—”
“Put your hands behind your back. Lay down on them. All your weight. Close your eyes. Tight! Squeeze ’em tight!”
“Is this because I missed? I would have hit Bell if you let me use my own gun.”
“I knew you would miss.”
“Then why—”
“Open your mouth.”
“What—”
The assassin shoved the rifle between Big Pete’s teeth and touched the muzzle to the roof of his mouth. Big Pete felt it tickle the sensitive membrane.