Read Online The Avenger 18 - Death in Slow Motion by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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while they still thought him unconscious. In the second, he wanted to see if any bones were broken or cracked from that terrific embrace, before drawing attention to himself. Attention that was sure to be violent!
The first reason for pretending unconsciousness did not get him anywhere. Once, he did open his eyes enough to flick a gaze around through interlocking lashes. Three men were in the car with him. He saw the backs of two in front, and the feet of a third next to his head. The bells and siren told that he was still in the fire chiefs car.
But not with the chief, nor his men. They had undoubtedly been slugged somewhere and their car and equipment and uniforms taken.
However, none of these three said anything that The Avenger could overhear. They said nothing at all, not one word. Now and then, the man in the rear leaned over—Dick could feel the movement—and tapped one of the two in front, probably in some directing gesture. But there wasn’t a syllable spoken. The men might have been deaf and dumb.
The Avenger fared better with his second reason for lying low for a time. A cautious flexing of muscles and a slight movement of limbs, as if with the movement of the car, indicated no bones fractured. His chest was sore, but that was merely from bruises.
The red car’s siren stopped. Benson felt it wheel over hard as it rounded a sharp turn at high speed, then heard a hollow sound underneath and felt darkness through closed eyelids all around as it jammed into a small garage, a hiding place of some sort.
The Avenger was lifted from the red car and dumped roughly onto cement floor, with grease sliding under his limp hands. Again, he risked a slight look around.
The men, still without saying anything, were rapidly shedding uniforms and putting on street clothes.
Now, with the three busy with clothes and hopping around on one leg and then the other while they put pants on, would have been the best time for Dick to try a getaway. If he didn’t try now, the odds were that he’d be unable to later on.
But he waited just the same. It was Nellie Gray’s theory that her chief courted death rather than avoided it, and this instance would have confirmed that idea once more.
It seemed like sure death to wait. But The Avenger nevertheless decided to. He might learn something if he allowed himself to be carried farther, or he might locate one of the lairs of this gang.
They piled him into another car in the garage, an ordinary sedan. And then they were on the street again. This time the course was decorously slow, and there were no bells or sirens.
Still, the men said not one word. The Avenger lay in the bottom of the car, slackly, rolling with the sedan’s swerves. In a short time it stopped.
The Avenger felt the car sag as the man next to the driver got out. He heard five or six steps on cement sidewalk, then heard a metallic rumble like low thunder.
Dick Benson knew what that was.
It was a garage door of the steel, roll-up type. A garage door to be entered by a ramp across the sidewalk. This, the second stop, was almost certainly the end of the line. And it was almost equally certain that if that door ever rolled down again, with Benson behind it, it would also be the end of the line for him!
The Avenger sat up like a snake uncoiling.
So perfect had been his pretended unconsciousness that the move must have struck the man in the back seat like a movement from one dead. At any rate, his open mouth and astonishment-laden eyes indicated it.
There was a second before he had sense enough to snap the gun he held into line with Dick Benson’s head.
That second’s lapse was too bad for the man!
With a left hand like a blacksmith’s vise, Dick caught the fellow’s gun wrist. The gun squirmed inexorably off line, and the shot drew a choked gurgle as evidence that the man had shot his own pal, who had started to turn in alarm from the steering wheel.
Dick’s right fist flicked upward with careful precision. It
The first reason for pretending unconsciousness did not get him anywhere. Once, he did open his eyes enough to flick a gaze around through interlocking lashes. Three men were in the car with him. He saw the backs of two in front, and the feet of a third next to his head. The bells and siren told that he was still in the fire chiefs car.
But not with the chief, nor his men. They had undoubtedly been slugged somewhere and their car and equipment and uniforms taken.
However, none of these three said anything that The Avenger could overhear. They said nothing at all, not one word. Now and then, the man in the rear leaned over—Dick could feel the movement—and tapped one of the two in front, probably in some directing gesture. But there wasn’t a syllable spoken. The men might have been deaf and dumb.
The Avenger fared better with his second reason for lying low for a time. A cautious flexing of muscles and a slight movement of limbs, as if with the movement of the car, indicated no bones fractured. His chest was sore, but that was merely from bruises.
The red car’s siren stopped. Benson felt it wheel over hard as it rounded a sharp turn at high speed, then heard a hollow sound underneath and felt darkness through closed eyelids all around as it jammed into a small garage, a hiding place of some sort.
The Avenger was lifted from the red car and dumped roughly onto cement floor, with grease sliding under his limp hands. Again, he risked a slight look around.
The men, still without saying anything, were rapidly shedding uniforms and putting on street clothes.
Now, with the three busy with clothes and hopping around on one leg and then the other while they put pants on, would have been the best time for Dick to try a getaway. If he didn’t try now, the odds were that he’d be unable to later on.
But he waited just the same. It was Nellie Gray’s theory that her chief courted death rather than avoided it, and this instance would have confirmed that idea once more.
It seemed like sure death to wait. But The Avenger nevertheless decided to. He might learn something if he allowed himself to be carried farther, or he might locate one of the lairs of this gang.
They piled him into another car in the garage, an ordinary sedan. And then they were on the street again. This time the course was decorously slow, and there were no bells or sirens.
Still, the men said not one word. The Avenger lay in the bottom of the car, slackly, rolling with the sedan’s swerves. In a short time it stopped.
The Avenger felt the car sag as the man next to the driver got out. He heard five or six steps on cement sidewalk, then heard a metallic rumble like low thunder.
Dick Benson knew what that was.
It was a garage door of the steel, roll-up type. A garage door to be entered by a ramp across the sidewalk. This, the second stop, was almost certainly the end of the line. And it was almost equally certain that if that door ever rolled down again, with Benson behind it, it would also be the end of the line for him!
The Avenger sat up like a snake uncoiling.
So perfect had been his pretended unconsciousness that the move must have struck the man in the back seat like a movement from one dead. At any rate, his open mouth and astonishment-laden eyes indicated it.
There was a second before he had sense enough to snap the gun he held into line with Dick Benson’s head.
That second’s lapse was too bad for the man!
With a left hand like a blacksmith’s vise, Dick caught the fellow’s gun wrist. The gun squirmed inexorably off line, and the shot drew a choked gurgle as evidence that the man had shot his own pal, who had started to turn in alarm from the steering wheel.
Dick’s right fist flicked upward with careful precision. It
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