A Gambling Man David Baldacci (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

held up his hands futilely in a defensive measure as the younger and larger men bore down on him. The blood leached down his face and made a spot on his shirt like a crimson teardrop.

“You boys having fun at an old man’s expense?” said Archer as his hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around something he was probably going to need.

The three men turned around. They were all bigger and beefier than Archer, and not one of them carried a friendly expression.

Archer advanced on them and pointed at Howells. “You feel good about that? Something to write home to Mom about, if you got one.”

The biggest and meanest looking of the trio took a few steps toward Archer. “This ain’t your business, buddy, so shut your trap, just turn around, and keep moving, if you know what’s good for you. You get one warning and that’s it.”

“Bobby H, come on over here,” said Archer.

The other two men put out their thick arms to bar the old man from moving.

“Look here, I don’t want to do this the hard way,” said the big man. He held up a fist as large as a bowling ball. “You beat it now or this is the last thing you’ll see until you wake up.”

“All you have to do is let him go,” said Archer. “Then you don’t get hurt.”

The men just gazed stupidly back at him, as though wondering whether Archer was simple-minded or thought way too much of himself.

“Do you got a death wish, bub?” For added emphasis and to let Archer see things as clear as possible, the man took out a blackjack and slapped it against an open palm. One of the other thugs drew out a switchblade and made a slashing motion with it. He grinned and made another slash. Archer didn’t bother to watch the performance. His immediate focus was on the blackjack.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Archer, still marching toward the big man.

“So just turn around and get out of here. Last warn—”

Archer pushed off the balls of his feet, which separated him from the pavement. With his wingtips rising about six inches off the surface, he moved in a graceful arc. As he leaped he rotated his arm back, his elbow making a V pointing in the opposite direction from which he was heading. As Archer made his descent, his hand, now a mean fist, came forward. Archer leaned his weight into it, thereby accelerating the blow about to be delivered. His fist struck the man so hard on the chin on a downward slope that the man’s upper jaw jammed into his lower; two of his teeth were ejected by this collision and landed on the ground along with a stream of blood. A split second later, their owner joined them, facedown and lights out.

Archer came to rest on the ground, his knuckles cracked and bleeding and the stinger flowing all the way to his rotator. You couldn’t hurt another man in that way without hurting yourself, he knew. But he would take the pain he was feeling over the one the big man would endure when he awoke.

The knife man lunged at Archer, making attacking motions with his blade. Archer waited for a few seconds as he sized him up until the man drew close enough. Then he lashed out, gripped the man’s wrist holding the knife, and used his foot to hook his opponent’s ankle while at the same time he pushed his foe backward. The man fell, but he did so without the blade, since Archer had twisted it free with a violent downward tug on the man’s wrist.

Archer closed the blade and threw it behind him. He didn’t like knife fights for the most part and would rather finish this skirmish with his fists. The man regained his balance and flew at Archer, only to collapse backward from a shot directly to his nose that had painfully moved it about an inch closer to his face. He had less room to breathe now, but air was the least of his concerns at present. Like his friend, he collapsed on the pavement for an involuntary nap after Archer’s haymaker.

The third man, taking no chances, had drawn a snub-nosed Colt .32 with oak grips from his jacket pocket. He pointed the barrel at Archer and took no pains to conceal his delight at what he was about to do. It took something to kill a man at close distance and with your own hands. It took only an index finger and not a shred of nerve to do the same with a gun.

The shot made Archer flinch, because the sound of gunfire just did that to a man. But it hadn’t come from the snub-nosed.

He looked back to see Callahan standing there holding a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38 Special. She had fired the shot into the air, but now had her gun pointed at the other man’s chest. “Drop the piece, or I drop you,” she said, her features set like a slab of pretty granite. “And I don’t miss, mister.”

The man eyed her up and down, a slick smile creeping onto his lips. “I ain’t worried about no girl pulling no trigger on me.”

Her response was to place a shot through the top inch of his porkpie hat, neatly blowing it off his head. He cried out, dropped his gun, and knelt down, blubbering like a baby.

“Then stop worrying,” said Callahan calmly, holding the gun as expertly as the best-trained soldiers Archer had seen. “Unless you want the next slug drilling your balls. Which one do you love the least?”

Still whimpering, the man instinctively covered his crotch.

“Come over here, Bobby H,” said Archer again as he grabbed the .32, slipping it into his waistband. He also picked up the knife and put it in his jacket pocket.

Howells snatched up his hat, spat on the big man lying at his feet, and tottered over to Archer.