Read Online The Coldest Mile by Tom Piccirilli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Piccirilli
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beaming in.
“How old are you?” Bishop asked. “ Twenty- five, six? But you've been in the life for a while, it's written right into you. That might mean your parents were on the grift, except you toss around terms like ‘strongarm.’ So maybe not your parents, more likely a grandfather. Took you on the bend early. You've been at this for a long time. But what are you doing here? If you're a driver, you ought to be crewed up with bank heisters, stickup men.”
Chase was impressed as hell that Bishop had been able to glean all that and hit so close to home. A killer with acumen. The guy only had Chase's fake ID but maybe he'd cracked it, had asked around and found out Chase's real name, his story. That would be bad news. It would back Chase into a corner. He liked the idea that he could always fade back into his own life if he ever needed to. Not that it seemed likely to happen.
“You don't get charming conversation like this with stickup men,” Chase said. “You've got to go allthe way up to the big hitters if you want to chat about stealing babies from their mothers.”
“Jackie said you liked to talk back.”
Bishop brought the barrel of the .44 down hard on Chase's bad shoulder.
Red, pulsating agony swarmed Chase's brain, but he somehow managed to swallow down a scream. The torn muscle hadn't healed yet and the hole, poorly stitched in the first place, had remained constantly infected. He felt hot fluid pulse down his back.
Thrashing across the bed, Chase swept his hand out as if to prop himself in place, but he was actually going for the switchblade under the pillow. He'd felt a little stupid putting it there, the weight of it pressing against the side of his face while he tried to sleep, but he was glad for it now. Of course, if he'd really been smart, he would've slept with the 9mm under the pillow, instead of leaving it in the gym bag at the back of the closet. He thought he'd have to somehow get over his hatred of guns.
Bishop was still talking. “I saw that someone was using the bandages in the bathroom up here. So, you do like to tussle, huh? That a bullet wound? You got some mean friends someplace?”
“Don't we all?” Chase said through gritted teeth.
He popped the blade thinking, I have to be fast.
In a short, direct arc he slammed the point of the knife into Bishop's wrist, turned it hard, and slashed up the arm.
Blood lunged in a short fountain. Bishop let out alaugh, the prick. You really had to worry about the guys who had fun when you hurt them. The knife hit the floor. The .44 fell on the mattress and gave a short bounce. Chase made a grab for it but Bishop elbowed him aside, leaving a swathe of blood down Chase's T-shirt. Before the pistol could hit the bed again, Bishop made a snatch for it with his left hand. He wasn't as good with that one, Chase noticed, but he was still damn fine. He caught the gun and started to turn and point.
Chase chopped him with a left hook under the heart. Bishop coughed up another laugh while Chase swallowed a shout, his damaged fingers flaring. The blow should've slowed Bishop down but it didn't, and the .44 continued to come around. The blood swept with it, a black pumping spray that splashed Chase's chin and made him think of the parking- lot showdown with Earl Raymond, seeing Earl's head exploding in the Roadrunner, all the weeping red on the inside of the windshield.
Focus, Jonah said, or you're dead.
Going in tight, Chase snapped his forearm up against Bishop's elbow, shoving the gun away again. He clamped his hand down on Bishop's wounded wrist and squeezed, digging his fingernails into the gash and listening to the slup of running blood washing over his own knuckles. Bishop didn't laugh this time. Good. Chase kicked out with his right leg trying to catch the hitter in the groin, but Bishop had started to back away, dragging Chase along. He tried to stomp Chase's left foot, doing it the rightway close to the instep, just like Chase had done to
“How old are you?” Bishop asked. “ Twenty- five, six? But you've been in the life for a while, it's written right into you. That might mean your parents were on the grift, except you toss around terms like ‘strongarm.’ So maybe not your parents, more likely a grandfather. Took you on the bend early. You've been at this for a long time. But what are you doing here? If you're a driver, you ought to be crewed up with bank heisters, stickup men.”
Chase was impressed as hell that Bishop had been able to glean all that and hit so close to home. A killer with acumen. The guy only had Chase's fake ID but maybe he'd cracked it, had asked around and found out Chase's real name, his story. That would be bad news. It would back Chase into a corner. He liked the idea that he could always fade back into his own life if he ever needed to. Not that it seemed likely to happen.
“You don't get charming conversation like this with stickup men,” Chase said. “You've got to go allthe way up to the big hitters if you want to chat about stealing babies from their mothers.”
“Jackie said you liked to talk back.”
Bishop brought the barrel of the .44 down hard on Chase's bad shoulder.
Red, pulsating agony swarmed Chase's brain, but he somehow managed to swallow down a scream. The torn muscle hadn't healed yet and the hole, poorly stitched in the first place, had remained constantly infected. He felt hot fluid pulse down his back.
Thrashing across the bed, Chase swept his hand out as if to prop himself in place, but he was actually going for the switchblade under the pillow. He'd felt a little stupid putting it there, the weight of it pressing against the side of his face while he tried to sleep, but he was glad for it now. Of course, if he'd really been smart, he would've slept with the 9mm under the pillow, instead of leaving it in the gym bag at the back of the closet. He thought he'd have to somehow get over his hatred of guns.
Bishop was still talking. “I saw that someone was using the bandages in the bathroom up here. So, you do like to tussle, huh? That a bullet wound? You got some mean friends someplace?”
“Don't we all?” Chase said through gritted teeth.
He popped the blade thinking, I have to be fast.
In a short, direct arc he slammed the point of the knife into Bishop's wrist, turned it hard, and slashed up the arm.
Blood lunged in a short fountain. Bishop let out alaugh, the prick. You really had to worry about the guys who had fun when you hurt them. The knife hit the floor. The .44 fell on the mattress and gave a short bounce. Chase made a grab for it but Bishop elbowed him aside, leaving a swathe of blood down Chase's T-shirt. Before the pistol could hit the bed again, Bishop made a snatch for it with his left hand. He wasn't as good with that one, Chase noticed, but he was still damn fine. He caught the gun and started to turn and point.
Chase chopped him with a left hook under the heart. Bishop coughed up another laugh while Chase swallowed a shout, his damaged fingers flaring. The blow should've slowed Bishop down but it didn't, and the .44 continued to come around. The blood swept with it, a black pumping spray that splashed Chase's chin and made him think of the parking- lot showdown with Earl Raymond, seeing Earl's head exploding in the Roadrunner, all the weeping red on the inside of the windshield.
Focus, Jonah said, or you're dead.
Going in tight, Chase snapped his forearm up against Bishop's elbow, shoving the gun away again. He clamped his hand down on Bishop's wounded wrist and squeezed, digging his fingernails into the gash and listening to the slup of running blood washing over his own knuckles. Bishop didn't laugh this time. Good. Chase kicked out with his right leg trying to catch the hitter in the groin, but Bishop had started to back away, dragging Chase along. He tried to stomp Chase's left foot, doing it the rightway close to the instep, just like Chase had done to
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