Royal Flush

10

Leo Turrin had lost all track of time since the snatch. He knew only that he had been taken from the cement room and locked in a small bedroom. No furniture except the bed on which he lay. The window faced a row of other buildings and was barred.

He knew also that he hurt.

Angry red welts on his chest marked where the electrodes had been applied. His muscles ached from the spasms the charges had induced.

Shillelagh's electronic voice had droned on and on, the questions coming at him from all sides. Leo was interrogated by a master. He had been near breaking when two burly men came in through the door behind him, untied him, and dragged him to this room.

He did not know why the questioning had stopped, but he knew that if it started again, he was as good as dead.

He had to escape, and quickly.

The room was no more than twelve feet square, a Spartan cell. Ventilation was provided by a single duct above the door, its grating out of reach, the duct passage far too narrow for escape anyway. The door itself was sturdy, locked on the outside, guarded by a sentry in the corridor beyond.

Leo Turrin was not going anywhere.

The single piece of furniture, a metal cot on which he sat, was hard, unyielding. It reflected his pain, the crazy-quilt of throbs and aches that covered every fiber of his being. Sitting rigid on the cot, acutely conscious of the bare wire mesh beneath him, Leo held himself immobile, shunning any movement that might aggravate his injuries and amplify the pain.

Bastards could have given me a mattress, he groused. Even as the thought took shape he realized there was no time for sleeping or for licking wounds.

Survival was the top priority, and that meant getting out. But how? A rapid visual scan confirmed his first impression of the holding cell: it was a goddamned Mob-style warehouse, plain and simple, with no loopholes even for a man at full capacity. The single, caged bulb overhead illuminated every corner, leaving nothing to the prisoner's imagination, showing him remorselessly that his predicament was hopeless. There was nothing he could use to forge a weapon, an escape tool.

He still wore shoes and socks, slacks, but his torturers had relieved him of his belt and shoestrings — anything that might have served him in the cause of self-defense or suicide.

They wanted him alive and functioning — at least enough to understand and answer questions. Turrin knew they were not through with him by any means. They would be back, and he could not hold them off forever by the force of will alone. Eventually he would break, or he would die. Unless he could devise a method of escape.

Fat chance, the wounded warrior thought. They haven't even got a keyhole I can crawl through.

He changed positions gingerly, the effort costing him, and something clanked against his heel beneath the cot. It moved, retreating several inches, scraping over the linoleum with a familiar kind of sound.

Now, what the hell…

He doubled over, peering beneath the cot. It was an empty coffee can, the two-pound size, and Leo had a hunch he had found his makeshift toilet.

On command, his bladder started nagging for attention. Turrin grimaced at the thought of standing up, but Mother Nature had the con and she was calling all the shots. Right now the urge of his bladder was everything, its swift relief his sole objective.

Uncertain that his legs would hold him, Leo compromised by perching on a corner of the cot. With coffee can between his knees, he urinated painfully, relaxing by degrees until the throbbing in his bladder had receded, giving way to other, more persistent pains. About to tuck the can away beneath the bed, he glanced involuntarily inside — and saw the blood that mingled with his urine.

I'm dying here, he thought. Mack Bolan ain't around to help me this time....

He had never really thought of Bolan as a savior — though the gutsy blitz artist had saved his ass with frequency enough to qualify by any standard. Going on a lifetime now, Turrin had grown used to thinking of the hellfire warrior, Able Team's mentor, as his best friend, someone to fight and die for if the need arose.

They had not started out as friends, of course. Far from it. They had sworn to kill each other in those days, when Mack Bolan was a soldier freshly home from Nam and taking on another holy war — this time against the Mafia, which Leo Turrin served. It had been close, too frigging close for comfort, right; but after Bolan learned of Turrin's otherrole, his undercover status with a secret federal strike force targeting the Mob, the two men had reached a grim accommodation that had blossomed into spiritual kinship.

And Mack Bolan had been there when Leo needed him, damn right. In Philly, when a double-cross by Don Stefano Angeletti came within a hair of canceling the Turrin ticket — or in Pittsfield, when the war had come full circle with a vengeance! Augie Marinello's boys had stumbled onto Leo's deadly secret, and a life more precious to him than his own — sweet Angelina's — had been hanging in the balance until Bolan tipped the scales. If not for him…

Enough, goddammit.

This time out it was a solo hand for Leo, and he would have to play the cards as they were dealt to him. He could not raise the ante, but he could sure as hell refuse to fold. He had not joined the game to lose, and if it washed out that way in the end, it would not be because he opted for surrender.

Although Leo Turrin did not have the Man in Black to back his play this time, he was not precisely on his own. He had a righteous anger in him, now that he had seen his likely fate spelled out in blood, and there was always that something else — his unshakable belief in justice.

Sure, however outdated that might sound to certain sage philosophers or armchair liberals, for Leo Turrin, justice was the center of it all. He had done time in Vietnam, enlisted with the federal strike force, finally joined Mack Bolan's everlasting war — and all because he believed unswervingly that strong men armed could make a difference. You couldstrike a blow for what was right and fair, for what was just, by God.

And if you got your arms lopped off in the attempt, well then, you started kicking ass until the bastards took your legs away.

Leo Turrin smiled, aware that his condition and situation hardly made him a champion player.

"Oh, piss," he said wearily.

He glanced down at the can between his feet again, saw red and, in his mind's eye, something else. More softly now, almost with reverence, he spoke the oath again.

Oh, piss.

At first, the sentry thought he was imagining the sound. A muffled groaning, low, insistent, it demanded his attention like the still-small voice of conscience, long ignored. It came from somewhere close at hand, perhaps inside his skull.

But, no. The groaning was an actual sound, externalized. It issued from behind the door he was assigned to guard.

The sentry cocked his head, one ear almost against the door. No question, it was the prisoner. And he was suffering by the sound of it.

The sentry had observed the captive when they brought him in, and he recognized the signs. The guy was holding up but only just, and from his look, another session like the last would finish him. If the last one had not finished him already.

He was marked for death, this stranger, but the sentry could not let him die just yet. It was his job to keep the enemy confined, secure — to keep him breathing, if it came to that. And he could not afford to let the prisoner check out before his time. If the inquisitors were cheated of their game, they might go shopping for replacements — starting with the man who let the quarry slip away.

His key was in the lock before the sentry hesitated, mulling possibilities. The hostage might be dying. Or he might be waiting just beyond the door, to spring a trap.

With what?

He had no weapons, that was certain, and his injuries must necessarily have sapped his strength. On balance, any small resistance he might offer would be easily overcome.

The sentry frowned, released the strap that held his Colt revolver snug inside his holster. No sense taking chances, even with a man who had one foot inside the grave.

A dying man had nothing left to lose. The sentry, on the other hand, had everything.

From his position on the floor, curled up into a fetal ball beside the cot, he heard the sentry coming. Leo had his back turned toward the door. He charted the gunner's movements by his footsteps on the bare linoleum.

He heard the door open. His enemy was now over the threshold, maybe ten feet distant.

Still too far.

He waited.

"What's the trouble?"

Leo forced another moan. He was only half pretending now. The pain was real enough, for damn sure.

Footsteps, and the gunner closed the gap between them by another yard.

Not close enough.

"What is it?"

Leo recognized the edge behind the words. It spoke of tension. A false move now might set the guy off before he got in range, spoil everything.

The hostage groaned again. With feeling.

The sentry was beside him now, the hard toe of a boot against his aching ribs. Leo hunched his shoulder forward, half feigning nausea and sheltering the rancid-smelling coffee can he held tucked in against his chest. A length of heavy wire, which he had freed with difficulty from the cot, was wrapped around his other fist, with seven rigid inches of it thrust between his fingers.

"Speak up, there."

The boot swung in for emphasis and Leo winced, released another realistic moan. When he replied, he kept it breathless, barely audible.

"I need a doctor… hemorrhaging inside… get help."

He prayed the soldier would not panic and actually go to seek assistance. If the gunner weakened now and showed him too much mercy, he was finished.

Leather — boots and gunbelt — creaked as the sentry crouched beside him, reaching out to place a hand upon his shoulder.

"Let me have a look."

And Leo let him have it. He was already moving as the hostile hand began to roll him over on his back. His right hand whipped the coffee can around and flung its bloody contents into startled eyes.

The sentry tumbled backward, snarling, one hand clawing at his holstered weapon while the other sought his eyes. Off balance, gagging on the blood and urine that had found its way into his mouth, the gunner landed heavily on his back and missed his draw.

He never got a second chance.

With agile desperation, Leo Turrin lunged, with every tortured muscle in his body crying out, and suddenly he was astride the sentry's heaving chest.

Turrin struck with deadly accuracy at the gunner's throat, his wire lance slashing, penetrating. Razor-tipped and ice pick rigid, it bored through skin and muscle, grating past the larynx, reaming on until his knuckles, slick with blood, were tight against the sentry's jaw. A string of fierce convulsions racked the dying soldier's frame, and Leo rode him like a broncobuster, clinging with his knees, refusing to be thrown.

The sentry took some time to die, his struggles fading gradually, and then renewed for just an instant at the end, as if his dying brain believed a final savage effort could reverse the lethal damage, make it right. When he collapsed, the end was sudden, absolute, and Leo Turrin felt himself alone again inside the holding cell.

He rolled away, unmindful of the pain now, concentrating on the task at hand. His adversary's weapon had dislodged itself and lay beside him, inches from his lifeless fingers. Another moment, and he might have reached it, might have pressed the muzzle into Leo's side, and…

Turrin picked up the weapon and weighed it in his hand. It was a Colt Python, .357 Magnum, capable of dropping man or moose at any range within a hundred yards. He broke the cylinder and checked the weapon's load, discovering the sentry had kept the hammer down on an empty, leaving five rounds primed and ready.

Leo smiled. The sentry was, had been, a cautious man. No taking chance with the almost nonexistent possibility of misfires. It was fortunate that he had been less careful on the major points, or else.

Beyond his kill, the door stood open, irresistible. The wounded soldier rummaged for coins in the dead man's pockets, then got to his feet and stepped across the prostrate body, moving toward the vacant doorway and the corridor beyond.

Leo found the stairs. He descended them slowly, listening for any sound. He was in the main hallway of a small house. The furnishings were simple but spoke of money.

Just as he made the last step, a man came into the hall. Seeing the battered prisoner, the man tried to put down the tray that he was carrying and go for his gun at the same time. To do two things at once proved too much. Flame shot out from Leo's Colt. The bullet slammed into the goon's right shoulder, spinning him into a pirouette.

The tray clattered to the floor with the first shot, and by the second shot, Leo was at the front door. He opened it and glanced behind him quickly for signs of pursuit. He was puzzled that no one came after him, but he wasn't going to stand there and worry about it.

He stumbled into the street.

He didn't care in which direction he went, just so long as it was away from the house.

Inside the elegant town house, Shillelagh received the last of the report on the assault at Windsor. The interrogation of Sticker had been interrupted earlier this evening when the first reports filtered in from Shillelagh's contact with the CID.

Now two shots told Shillelagh that Sticker was escaping.

Obviously, the man he had set to guard Sticker had been careless. His carelessness had been doubtless terminal. Shillelagh could do nothing.

In addition to Shillelagh and Sticker, there were only two men in the house, both part of Shillelagh's hard arm. Any force larger at this particular house would have drawn the attention of the authorities.

Leo's escape was an inconvenience. Shillelagh picked up the telephone. Long manicured fingers dialed, then a device held tightly to Shillelagh's throat sent eerie directions into the night.

As he walked along the street, the cold crept up on Leo as his exhilaration at escaping wore off. He had no protection against the cold, he was still without a shirt. The Colt was tucked into the waistband of his pants. People walked by him, stepping out of the way of the wild man with the red welts.

He found a phone booth outside a subway station. Leo peered at the instruction card, took out a handful of the coins liberated from the guard, and dialed 100.

The operator came on, and dialed the American embassy for him. He had no idea how much she told him to deposit, he just fed all the coins into the box.

"Get me Sir Jack Richardson. This is Sticker."

"Good God, sir," the embassy operator exclaimed. "Sir Jack isn't here at the moment. He and half the embassy are out looking for you. Where are you?"

"A subway station. The sign reads Ravenscourt Park."

"Right. Sir Jack's not too far, maybe five minutes away. Stay there and I'll call him."

Leo hung up the phone and collapsed. His knees gave way and he sank to the floor of the booth. He was totally beat.

From across the street, two men in a station wagon watched him slump. They got out of the vehicle and fanned out, alert for any friends of the prey.

A moment later, one of the men had disarmed Leo and was dragging him struggling to the parked car. His companion watched for interference.

Constable Brown had patrolled the Ravenscourt Park area for most of his working life. It was a quiet district; in fifteen years he had seen very little that had made him truly scared.

He had just turned into King Street when he saw the two men. Constable Brown called out to the man to release his struggling captive.

The lookout hesitated too long. By the time he had swung his weapon, Brown was rapping his club across the guy's wrist. The gun skittered across the pavement. A billy-club blow into the lookout's stomach had the guy doubled over.

Mustering his final reserves of strength with fierce determination, Leo reached back and delivered a roundhouse right to the nose of the man who held his left arm in a vicelike grasp. The man reeled as much in surprise as from the force of the blow. Leo took the advantage and grabbed his Colt back. He fired two shots into the guy's chest. The corpse collapsed in a gory heap. A pool of blood quickly spread.

Constable Brown looked at the disheveled fellow he had just helped rescue. The man looked like hell.

"Well, you had to shoot him, I suppose," the constable sighed. He held the captive lookout by the scruff of the neck.

A limo cornered heavily at the end of the street. It roared up, then slammed on its brakes to stop parallel to Leo and the bobby and his prisoner.

Armed Marines from the embassy force spilled out of the car and surrounded the three men.

It took Sir Jack Richardson a moment longer to get out of the car. The cane kept getting in the way. He raised himself to his full height and marched toward his American colleague and the two strangers, one of them regrettably a policeman.

"Let me see your permits, please!" boomed Constable Brown, his eyes bulging at the man with the cane and at each and every one of the Marines. With his prisoner still securely accounted for by the neck, he prodded the Marine with the nightstick as Leo laughed. "You first, soldier. Your papers where I can see 'em, and put that thing down!"he snapped, rapping the man's rifle barrel with his stick.

Sir Jack Richardson watched. It was going to be a long night.