Read Online The Avenger 23 - The Wilder Curse by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
Ads: Link
enough for six without yelling. The Avenger could have been deaf, inside the van, and still have known that a lot was wrong.
First off, three men jumped Smitty, rising up from behind cars standing nearby.
The three were quite confident that they could handle him, big as he was. Why not? His arms were bound to his sides by the taut noose. Anyhow, guys as big as Smitty were always slow and muscle-bound, weren’t they?
But it seemed that they were not. Not always. And the noose around Smitty’s tree-trunk arms didn’t last long. It was only quarter-inch hemp.
Smitty heaved his great chest and bulged muscles of arms and shoulders as he did so. The rope parted just as two men tackled him from the waist up and a third put arms like a vise around his big legs.
“O.K.,” one sang out. “Tie him up—” The “up turned into an uppgh” as Smitty jerked one huge leg up. The man went up with it, further assisted by a knee under the chin. At the next instant, Smitty whirled like a giant top and the two men hanging onto his arms and shoulders were snapped off like the end-men of a big crack-the-whip.
Four more instantly piled on the giant, dropping the ropes with which they’d meant to bind him. Smitty went back a pace under their combined onslaught.
The big fellow had never learned to box. He’d never had to. He just hit, and whether the recipient of the blow had had his guard up or not made no difference. Frequently, Smitty knocked out a man with that man’s own fist, by slamming it back against his jaw.
He knocked out one of his attackers like this. Then he raised a tremendous left fist and brought it straight down like a hammer on a nail. The nail was the head of another of this gang that had been indiscreet enough to annoy Justice, Inc.
The man’s head seemed to sink clear down beneath the level of his collarbone, and he sagged, out of it for a good long time.
Now, however, another had crept behind him, and this one slugged him with a wrench or something. It staggered the giant. While he was off balance, three more dove at him. He fell over backwards like a falling tree, and at least four jumped on top of him. Maybe five. He was past counting.
They slugged at his head with gun butts and saps, as if they were beating a shark to death in the bottom of a boat. Smitty tried to roll with the blows a little, but didn’t miss them all. The already dim light in the place seemed to be dimming still more.
Smitty went limp.
He wasn’t actually out, but he would be in another ten seconds, so why keep on? Why not save himself a little bit by pretending?
“The big dope’s made of scrap iron or something,” one of the men complained bitterly. He kicked at Smitty’s head. “Don’t bother to rope him, now. He’ll stay put for a while. Just throw him into the van. If any heads stick out of the van, cut ’em off at the neck with slugs.”
Smitty’s big bulk was hauled back up to the van top with a rope thrown over the roof girders and handled by five men. Up there, the grinning monkey with the submachine gun steered the giant frame to the opening made by The Avenger.
They dropped Smitty unceremoniously through, and he lit on his head and shoulders on the van floor.
If he hadn’t been two thirds unconscious, and relaxed, he would have broken his neck. As it was, the shock did little more than snap him back to consciousness again.
“All set?” yelled someone outside, from a distance.
“All set,” was the answer.
“Then give ’em the works.”
CHAPTER VIII
Time Bomb!
The first voice outside, the one from a little distance, was composed to the point of indifference. It sounded slightly familiar. Even with his wits a bit addled, Smitty caught that faint familiarity. He thought The Avenger did, too.
Benson had his flashlight on, and it seemed that his deadly, colorless eyes were glittering more balefully than usual.
The voice went on.
“One of you in back, another in front. Guns trained. If anybody
First off, three men jumped Smitty, rising up from behind cars standing nearby.
The three were quite confident that they could handle him, big as he was. Why not? His arms were bound to his sides by the taut noose. Anyhow, guys as big as Smitty were always slow and muscle-bound, weren’t they?
But it seemed that they were not. Not always. And the noose around Smitty’s tree-trunk arms didn’t last long. It was only quarter-inch hemp.
Smitty heaved his great chest and bulged muscles of arms and shoulders as he did so. The rope parted just as two men tackled him from the waist up and a third put arms like a vise around his big legs.
“O.K.,” one sang out. “Tie him up—” The “up turned into an uppgh” as Smitty jerked one huge leg up. The man went up with it, further assisted by a knee under the chin. At the next instant, Smitty whirled like a giant top and the two men hanging onto his arms and shoulders were snapped off like the end-men of a big crack-the-whip.
Four more instantly piled on the giant, dropping the ropes with which they’d meant to bind him. Smitty went back a pace under their combined onslaught.
The big fellow had never learned to box. He’d never had to. He just hit, and whether the recipient of the blow had had his guard up or not made no difference. Frequently, Smitty knocked out a man with that man’s own fist, by slamming it back against his jaw.
He knocked out one of his attackers like this. Then he raised a tremendous left fist and brought it straight down like a hammer on a nail. The nail was the head of another of this gang that had been indiscreet enough to annoy Justice, Inc.
The man’s head seemed to sink clear down beneath the level of his collarbone, and he sagged, out of it for a good long time.
Now, however, another had crept behind him, and this one slugged him with a wrench or something. It staggered the giant. While he was off balance, three more dove at him. He fell over backwards like a falling tree, and at least four jumped on top of him. Maybe five. He was past counting.
They slugged at his head with gun butts and saps, as if they were beating a shark to death in the bottom of a boat. Smitty tried to roll with the blows a little, but didn’t miss them all. The already dim light in the place seemed to be dimming still more.
Smitty went limp.
He wasn’t actually out, but he would be in another ten seconds, so why keep on? Why not save himself a little bit by pretending?
“The big dope’s made of scrap iron or something,” one of the men complained bitterly. He kicked at Smitty’s head. “Don’t bother to rope him, now. He’ll stay put for a while. Just throw him into the van. If any heads stick out of the van, cut ’em off at the neck with slugs.”
Smitty’s big bulk was hauled back up to the van top with a rope thrown over the roof girders and handled by five men. Up there, the grinning monkey with the submachine gun steered the giant frame to the opening made by The Avenger.
They dropped Smitty unceremoniously through, and he lit on his head and shoulders on the van floor.
If he hadn’t been two thirds unconscious, and relaxed, he would have broken his neck. As it was, the shock did little more than snap him back to consciousness again.
“All set?” yelled someone outside, from a distance.
“All set,” was the answer.
“Then give ’em the works.”
CHAPTER VIII
Time Bomb!
The first voice outside, the one from a little distance, was composed to the point of indifference. It sounded slightly familiar. Even with his wits a bit addled, Smitty caught that faint familiarity. He thought The Avenger did, too.
Benson had his flashlight on, and it seemed that his deadly, colorless eyes were glittering more balefully than usual.
The voice went on.
“One of you in back, another in front. Guns trained. If anybody
Similar Books
