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40.
Still hurt from his multistory drop in the van—and only saved by the intervening trees and then the roof collapsing, while he was secure in his harness and bucket seat so that his bones were not mashed in a welter of blood—Captain Alton Hedrock limped along the deserted nighttime streets of West Gotha. Military patrols, seeing his West Gotha uniform, asked for his papers, and he showed them. They seemed puzzled that he wasn't riding in a staff car, but he explained that there had been some informalities and exigencies (he winked, indicating some sort of embarrassing dalliance) and they let him go. He figured the van had sent its signal, and Felix would know what to do. He could have telephoned Felix's organization, but thought better of it. Why invite the West Gotha dicks to zoom in on him? Felix would know what to do. Dreamily, he thought of how nice it would be if Amy would hide him for a few weeks until he healed. What a bit of heaven it would be to have some time with her. Then he remembered that she had not been seen for a while, and the thinking was that the Moss Syndicate were holding her prisoner somewhere.
He took a taxi part of the way, then walked the last few blocks through narrow city streets that seemed more Parisian than West Gotha. He smelled wine, sausage, and heard laughter, violin music, conversation—now if only life could be like that. Or was it the pain killers he'd been popping?
As he approached the safe house owned by someone in the Felix-Amy sphere of operations, he felt the small handgun in his side pocket. He turned its safety off and then on again. Better safe than sorry or dead.
He turned the corner and walked the last hundred feet down a neat, dull street of concrete and windows. He knocked on the door as prescribed. No answer. He looked right, then left, and punched the finger-code into the key pad. The door next to the key pad swung open. He limped inside, glad to be safe, and looking forward to a hot shower and a beer, then sleep. "Felix?" No answer. He stormed forward, turning on the light and pulling out the gun at the same time. Nobody. He stood holding the gun and listened suspiciously. Silence. He laughed to himself and put the gun in his pocket. Eagerly, he limped to the refrigerator in the clean little kitchen and opened it, hoping to find a cold beer. The fridge was empty.
Hearing a noise behind himself, he turned.
Two men stood there. One was just a big dumb guy they'd hired. The other was that stupid Tonsonby. Both brandished small hand guns and had the situation rather under their control.
How did they get onto and into this safe house? Hedrock eyeballed the two, and the lay of the land, looking for a way to hurt them, kill them, startle them, anything to win his way out of this losing position.
"I want to take you alive," Tonsonby said.
"I think there is a misunderstanding. All I wanted was a beer."
"We'll get you all the beer you need."
"I don't understand," Hedrock said thinking of the handgun he'd just put in his pocket. "I have my papers here in my pocket." He reached down.
Tonsonby yelled "No, don't!" but the big stupid guy with him fired. Hedrock saw the repeated muzzle flashes. He even saw Tonsonby yell in anger and turn and shoot his own ally, who went down looking stupid and died faster than Hedrock could.
"Fuxl!" was the last thing Hedrock heard as he lay bleeding on the carpet. It smelled funny, of rug cleaner, in that odd sweet little way Amy had. He decided to think of her, now that the darkness was closing in.
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