Viper - Michael Morley [41]
By mid-afternoon he wasn’t only clear-headed, he was enjoying himself. Back to your roots, Big H, this is what you do best. And he wasn’t just bragging, he really was good at it. Somehow people opened up more to fat guys with a sense of humour. It was something he’d learned long ago and he’d regularly shared these words of wisdom with every FBI medic that had tried to get him to diet.
As the afternoon clouds darkened, he was satisfied that he had enough scraps of information to start to put together a good picture of Luciano Creed.
Then things took a turn for the worse.
Three blocks from home he cut through a back alley to save time. And that’s where it all went wrong. He stumbled straight into a good old-fashioned New York mugging.
Two black teenagers in hooded sweats had cornered a tall woman with short, spiky blonde hair. One was barking orders and holding what looked like a gun. Howie knew the hoodies had at least theft on their minds. If they felt lucky, then they might just roll the dice and go for rape as well.
The woman was holding a thin cardboard carton, literally hanging on to it for dear life.
Howie took a deep breath. No longer an FBI agent. No longer the bearer of a badge or a gun. All he had was fifty pounds more weight than both of the punks put together. That, he decided, would have to be his weapon of choice.
‘Give it up, an’ your fuckin’ money!’ screamed the bigger perp. ‘Fucking bitch. Give it me, lady, or I’ll put a fucking cap in your shitty white head!’
Howie slid along the shadows. Stuck to the cover of some overflowing dumpsters. He could tell the muggers were as jittery as hell, no doubt crackheads desperate for their next score. ‘Jus’ fuckin’ whip the bitch and get her money!’ shouted the smaller one.
Howie was still pinning down a game plan when his cellphone rang.
The hoodies’ heads cranked towards him.
He had no choice but to break cover. Rush them now or get shot at.
Howie found he had all the speed of a rhino with a hernia. But, fortunately, about the same weight and strength.
‘Fuuuuck! ’ was all the guy with the gun could manage as Howie crashed him into a brick wall, taking down his buddy at the same time. He heard the gun scatter across the ground and took the chance to pound a meaty fist into the face of the youth trapped beneath him.
Somehow the kid wriggled free and was damned well upright while Howie was still struggling to get up off all fours.
Howie knew a blow was coming but couldn’t stop it.
A boot smashed into his face. A screen of eggshell-white light slammed down behind his eyes. More blows battered his body.
‘Get the fuck outta here!’ shouted one of the hoodies. Their feet slapped off into the distance.
The big guy lurched to his feet. Vision blurry, heart trying to bust through his chest. He rocked unsteadily. Caught half a glimpse of the woman – running safely the other way down the alley.
Then it hit him.
Sharp and hot. A numb pain that caused him to cramp before it exploded into white-hot agony.
Howie staggered. Put a hand on a wall to stop himself passing out. Reached back to find the source of the pain.
He’d been stabbed.
The smaller punk, the little bastard without the gun, had stabbed him in the ass. And the blade was still there. This was both good and bad. Bad because someone was going to have to pick the metal out of his butt, and that sounded a long way from fun. Good because he guessed the wound was so deep that if the knife had come out, then he might already be bleeding to death.
I mean, Howie asked himself, how the fuck can you put a tourniquet on your own ass? In fact, how can anyone put a tourniquet on an ass?
He steadied himself against the alley wall. Realized he was barely able to move, let alone walk. He had to think his way out of the jam.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a woman’s voice.
Howie peered to his side. It was the dame with the big