Brett Halliday - Violence Is Golden

“Too bad,” Thompson said, straightening. “You’d better drop your gun, Ward. George isn’t feeling his best tonight, but it doesn’t take much strength to squeeze a trigger. Three seconds, George. One-”

Ward’s hand opened slowly. The forty-five fell to the floor. George’s face began working. He retched, crumpling forward. Ward looked around warily as the light blinked off.

There was a rapid change of positions in the darkness. Shayne, in a series of jackknife motions, hitched toward the forty-five.

“Kill the car lights!” Thompson yelled.

Shayne’s knee struck the automatic. He reversed and convulsed himself backward, groping along the floor with spread fingers. The lights outside went off. Somebody tripped over him as his fingers gripped the butt of the forty-five.

“Reverend,” Thompson said softly, almost whispering. “Where are you now, Reverend? You shouldn’t fool around with firearms. You’re in trouble. It’s three against one, and you know you’re going to get clobbered.”

It was actually three against two, but Shayne, tied hand and foot, was not yet a part of the count. A lighted book of matches flew in the window. Thompson and Shayne were alone in the room. Thompson now had the thirty-eight which George had dropped. He whirled and stamped out the flame.

For a moment after that there was silence. It was broken by a flurry of action as two figures collided.

Shayne strained downward against the cord around his wrists. It slipped slightly, allowing him to get the muzzle of the heavy automatic to within three or four inches of his ankles. He wanted to cut the ankle cord, but it would be a risky shot. If he missed by an eighth of an inch, he would shatter his heel.

There was a stealthy movement near him. Glass crunched underfoot. Shayne backed toward the sound. After a half dozen twitching movements, he began feeling behind him for the glass.

For an instant Thompson’s figure, the thirty-eight in his fist, was outlined against a window opening.

“Move in, Yami. He hasn’t got a gun.”

George retched somewhere outside in the darkness. Shayne’s fingers scraped up a few crumbs of glass, but not enough to give him a cutting edge. Swearing to himself, he pressed down hard with the forty-five, doubling his feet up behind him and fighting to bring the muzzle of the automatic into contact with the cord. He raked the gun forward and back, within the limits of his contorted posture.

He was running out of time. He forced his ankles as far apart as they would go, corrected the line of the gun, concentrating hard, and pulled the trigger.

His feet sprang apart.

Thompson fired at the flash. Shayne rolled twice, coming up into a crouch. A figure loomed in a window. Identifying the bull neck and bristling haircut of the Japanese, Shayne hurtled at him, knocking him backward into a pile of sand.

Shayne came down with his shoulder against the other man’s throat. The Japanese grabbed up at him, raking Shayne’s face with his fingernails. Shayne uncoiled, went up in the air, and came down hard with both knees. While the Japanese clutched at himself, groaning, Shayne floundered to his feet and kicked him in the head.

He still had a firm grip on the forty-five, but he was unable to bring it around. He skidded back into the shadow of the building.

His feet struck an overturned bucket. Reversing it, he kicked it into the open. It rolled to the unguarded edge of the cliff and went over with a clatter. Thompson, inside the house, fired blindly at the sound.

There was a slight movement overhead. Looking up, Shayne saw Ward, on his knees, on the staging over the doorway, holding a cinderblock.

“Back,” the Japanese yelled. “Thompson!”

Falling forward, he wrenched at the staging. Ward threw the cinderblock and the staging came down. One of the heavy boards caught Shayne across the knees. He kicked himself free. Thompson, in the doorway, had taken the full weight of the scaffold.

The Japanese threw himself at Ward and the two men grappled, rolling over and over in loose sand. Shayne went on hunting for something sharp enough to cut the remaining cord. He kicked against a shovel. Crouching, he felt for the cutting edge of the blade. It was blunt and useless.

George stumbled against him. Shayne took him out of action again with a hard body block and kicked him twice after coming erect, making sure this time that he placed the kicks exactly where he wanted them.

Ward cried, terrified, “Don’t! For God’s sake, no! Shayne!”

The struggle had moved to the edge of the steep drop. Thompson was still clawing at the planks, trying to free himself. Shayne ran to the two grappling men, in time to see the Japanese, on top, raise his knife. Shayne crouched backward against the Japanese, touched him with the forty-five, and fired.

The bullet’s impact tore the Japanese out of Ward’s grasp and flung him sideward. He clutched out, yelled something, and went over.

Shayne began to feel frantically for the dropped knife.

“Is that you, Mike?” Ward gasped. “What are you looking for? Are you hurt?”

Shayne made an urgent sound. Didn’t the damn fool realize there was no time for questions and answers?

“God, yes-the knife,” Ward said. “Here.”

An instant later Shayne’s wrists were free. He ran for the house, pulling at the tape across his mouth. Changing direction abruptly, he took cover behind the sand pile and considered the changed situation.

The weapons were now evenly distributed, and Shayne had the heavier gun. Thompson was only a hired hand, probably with little personal stake in the venture. As soon as he realized that the Japanese was dead and Shayne had the use of both hands, he would remember the taxi and try to use it to get away.

Shayne crawled out from the protection of the sand pile. Halfway to the taxi, he saw a figure dart out of a shadow, then veer away from the edge of the unfinished swimming pool. It was Thompson. For a few steps he was hidden from Shayne by the shadow of the bulldozer. When he came out into the open again, Shayne took careful aim and shot him in the leg.

With a muffled cry, Thompson fell backward into the excavation. Shayne ran to the Checker and, after starting the motor, wheeled the cab around until its headlights illuminated the edges of the rectangular hole.

“Thompson!” he called. “Say something if you can hear me.

There was no answer.

Leaving the taxi, Shayne circled toward the bulldozer. “Put up your head and I’ll blow it off, Thompson,” he called. “How can I miss? Throw your gun out. Then crawl out slowly.”

There was still no answer. Shayne waved Ward back with a peremptory movement of the forty-five and slid around the bulldozer. Its blade was raised a few feet above the ground. He eased forward and called again.

“Thompson, you’re through. You must know that by now. You’re all alone. Yami’s dead and George is out cold. I have the forty-five. I’m in no hurry. I can wait till you bleed to death or put your head up out of that hole.”

There was a flicker of flame. A bullet whanged against the bulldozer blade and whined off into the darkness.

Shayne swung up into the bulldozer’s high cab. He didn’t know this model, but all the controls seemed to be in the usual place. Thompson scrambled into view and snapped a shot up at him. Shayne switched on the ignition. As the powerful motor took hold, he pulled the blade lever, and the blade came up slowly to protect the cab. Thompson slid back, scratching at the loose dirt.

Shayne put the monster in gear. It lunged clumsily forward. As soon as it began to tip, he cut the switch and set the stabilizers, two long hydraulic props which served to anchor the machine when the backhoe was being used.