them.
It all seemed simple enough in the planning, but Gianni knew better.
With his ear to the wall, he listened to their interrogation. But he was hearing more than just words. One of the men was
walking, not sitting, and Gianni followed the sound of his footsteps on the flooring. The sound hung in the air, numbing everything.
It made what followed seem dreamlike and slow.
First, there were the footsteps sounding louder and coming closer.
Then Gianni had the earliest notion of leaning toward the door, his body getting ready, starting with the tiniest bones inhis feet. He knew instantly what was coming next, as though the don’s personal gun carried its own black powers of perception.
He and the gun knew.
It was the truth, and he was moving a good few seconds before the sound of Mary Yung’s coughing came through the wall. He
actually noticed a pair of watercolors as he swept past them, along with his own blurred reflection in a hall mirror.
Then he was in the living room and one of the men was coming toward him, his eyes suddenly wide as he groped for his holster.
Gianni started to raise his gun, but there was an explosion before he could bring it to bear and the man went down on his
knees and then on his chest.
Gianni looked at the others in the room. His ears rang from the gun blast and he saw streaks that might have been rain. Mary
Yung was still sitting in the chair. The other two men were half off the couch and pulling at their guns as she fired again.
One of the men went over backward.
The other man was still tugging at his holster as Gianni caught him in the head with his gun butt. He fell and lay still.
Mary Yung sat with her revolver in both hands, continuing to aim where the man had been before Gianni hit him. Then she slowly
lowered her gun.
“Have you forgotten?” said Gianni. “We need someone alive to question.”
She just looked at him.
Smoke drifted in the gray light. The air smelled burned and felt humid with blood.
Gianni bent to the two men Mary Yung had shot. They were both dead.
“Will any neighbors hear the shots?” he asked.
“No. The nearest one is acres away.”
Gianni lifted the unconscious man onto the couch. He found a pair of handcuffs on him and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Mary Yung sat watching him, not moving.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Why shouldn’t I be all right? They came into my houseto hurt and probably kill me. 1 just wish I could do it all again.”
Gianni didn’t believe it.
“Better feed this one some brandy,” he said. “We’ve got to get him talking.”
Gianni went through the attache case and found its contents an exact duplication of the one in his loft—same photographs,
same computer printouts, same electroshock persuader. Apparently, this was standard equipment on the hunt for Vittorio Battaglia.
He heard a groan and saw Mary Yung working some brandy between the agent’s lips. He was a chunky, muscular man with a jaw
like an ax blade, and ochre animal eyes that seemed to live for a contest. His identification said he was Spl. Agt. Tom Bentley.
Gianni allowed him a few minutes to come out of it.
“Your buddies are dead,” he told him. “So you’re all we’ve got to answer our questions. You can do it easy or hard. It’s up
to you.”
The agent looked at Gianni Garetsky and Mary Chan Yung. Then he looked at the electric persuader lying prominently beside
the couch.
“What are your questions?”
“Why is Battaglia being hunted? Who wants him? Are you people really FBI or just playing at it?”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Bentley lay there with it. The things he knew settled on him with a certainty that accepted no misunderstandings.
“And if I don’t answer?”
Mary Yung cut in. “Then you’ll end up as dead as we will. Only a lot sooner.”
Bentley considered her with his pale, yellow eyes. “You’re sure one beautiful woman, Miss Yung.” He grinned. “And one beautiful
It all seemed simple enough in the planning, but Gianni knew better.
With his ear to the wall, he listened to their interrogation. But he was hearing more than just words. One of the men was
walking, not sitting, and Gianni followed the sound of his footsteps on the flooring. The sound hung in the air, numbing everything.
It made what followed seem dreamlike and slow.
First, there were the footsteps sounding louder and coming closer.
Then Gianni had the earliest notion of leaning toward the door, his body getting ready, starting with the tiniest bones inhis feet. He knew instantly what was coming next, as though the don’s personal gun carried its own black powers of perception.
He and the gun knew.
It was the truth, and he was moving a good few seconds before the sound of Mary Yung’s coughing came through the wall. He
actually noticed a pair of watercolors as he swept past them, along with his own blurred reflection in a hall mirror.
Then he was in the living room and one of the men was coming toward him, his eyes suddenly wide as he groped for his holster.
Gianni started to raise his gun, but there was an explosion before he could bring it to bear and the man went down on his
knees and then on his chest.
Gianni looked at the others in the room. His ears rang from the gun blast and he saw streaks that might have been rain. Mary
Yung was still sitting in the chair. The other two men were half off the couch and pulling at their guns as she fired again.
One of the men went over backward.
The other man was still tugging at his holster as Gianni caught him in the head with his gun butt. He fell and lay still.
Mary Yung sat with her revolver in both hands, continuing to aim where the man had been before Gianni hit him. Then she slowly
lowered her gun.
“Have you forgotten?” said Gianni. “We need someone alive to question.”
She just looked at him.
Smoke drifted in the gray light. The air smelled burned and felt humid with blood.
Gianni bent to the two men Mary Yung had shot. They were both dead.
“Will any neighbors hear the shots?” he asked.
“No. The nearest one is acres away.”
Gianni lifted the unconscious man onto the couch. He found a pair of handcuffs on him and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Mary Yung sat watching him, not moving.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Why shouldn’t I be all right? They came into my houseto hurt and probably kill me. 1 just wish I could do it all again.”
Gianni didn’t believe it.
“Better feed this one some brandy,” he said. “We’ve got to get him talking.”
Gianni went through the attache case and found its contents an exact duplication of the one in his loft—same photographs,
same computer printouts, same electroshock persuader. Apparently, this was standard equipment on the hunt for Vittorio Battaglia.
He heard a groan and saw Mary Yung working some brandy between the agent’s lips. He was a chunky, muscular man with a jaw
like an ax blade, and ochre animal eyes that seemed to live for a contest. His identification said he was Spl. Agt. Tom Bentley.
Gianni allowed him a few minutes to come out of it.
“Your buddies are dead,” he told him. “So you’re all we’ve got to answer our questions. You can do it easy or hard. It’s up
to you.”
The agent looked at Gianni Garetsky and Mary Chan Yung. Then he looked at the electric persuader lying prominently beside
the couch.
“What are your questions?”
“Why is Battaglia being hunted? Who wants him? Are you people really FBI or just playing at it?”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Bentley lay there with it. The things he knew settled on him with a certainty that accepted no misunderstandings.
“And if I don’t answer?”
Mary Yung cut in. “Then you’ll end up as dead as we will. Only a lot sooner.”
Bentley considered her with his pale, yellow eyes. “You’re sure one beautiful woman, Miss Yung.” He grinned. “And one beautiful
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