Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern Page B

it was Jessica Pace.
    â€œI said, you awake?”
    â€œYou get your butt over here and untie me—right now,” Frost snapped.
    â€œShut up,” and Frost felt something hard and round pressing against the front of his forehead. “Know what that is?”
    â€œA gun—do I win the prize?” Frost rasped angrily.
    â€œ Your gun—the Browning. Now you keep quiet and only answer the questions I ask—try moving, try telling me something I didn’t ask about and you get this,” the voice snarled—and the muzzle of the Browning ground into his forehead.
    â€œNow—Andy Deacon sent you—what’s your name?”
    â€œYou read my wallet,” Frost snapped.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” The voice was rising, angry-sounding, and he could feel the muzzle of his gun twisting hard against his forehead.
    â€œFrost—Hank Frost—you know that, damn it!”
    â€œWhat did Deacon tell you?”
    â€œWho are you?” Frost asked.
    This time the muzzle of the pistol moved away from him. He could feel its absence, then feel it hammer into his stomach. His back arched and his legs stretched and he felt the noose tightening around his neck.
    â€œNow we’ll try again,” he heard the voice say, the words sounding as though they were being spit out between clenched teeth.
    â€œWhat?” Frost choked.
    â€œWhat did Deacon tell you?”
    Frost mentally shrugged, trying to ease the tension of the noose around his neck as he spoke, recounting what Deacon had told him in the hospital room, the recognition signal to the old woman—Deacon’s supposed aunt—everything. Finally, after what seemed to him like an eternity, the woman asked another question.
    â€œWhat are your plans?”
    â€œAre you Jessica Pace?” Frost asked back.
    The muzzle of the pistol left his forehead and he braced for another shot to the stomach. Instead, he felt something—a hand—at the top of his head, felt the sack or pillowcase moving; he almost choked as the thing caught in the noose around his neck. The thing covering his head—it was a pillowcase—was pulled up, and he squinted against the light.
    The woman had long, straight dark-red hair, brown eyes, and a pale complexion. She looked tall—at least from where Frost lay on the floor. Deacon had described her to him and as far as Frost could tell, this was the woman. His Browning was in her right fist and there was a smaller, medium-frame automatic shoved into the beltless waistband of the faded blue jeans she wore.
    â€œJessica Pace?”
    â€œYeah,” the woman answered emotionlessly.
    â€œSorry about having to cold-cock you, pal,” she added.
    â€œAww, listen—I can understand your wanting tobe on the cautious side.” Frost smiled.
    â€œThen no hard feelings?” The woman smiled.
    â€œHey—listen, just get me untied, huh?” Frost told her.
    She bent down to his ankles, using a pair of household shears to cut the clothesline binding his feet together. Almost immediately, the pressure around his neck and throat eased, the tension on the noose around it relaxed.
    She pulled the pillowcase all the way off; then held the scissors close to his throat—too close, he thought—and snipped the noose. She turned him around on the floor and cut the ropes around his wrists. “There—why don’t you take a stretch?”
    â€œGood idea,” Frost said cheerfully. He noticed the Browning in her hand had the safety on, the hammer cocked. Frost swept his left leg around and up, catching Jessica Pace behind the knees, making them buckle. His hands reached up, grabbing for the High Power, his left thumb easing between the cocked hammer and the frame to prevent the pistol from going off. His right hand whipped down, snatching the blued medium-frame automatic from her pants as she started to fall face-first to the floor.
    The girl came out of