Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(95)

Deja led her people out the front door and across the street. Gibson finished his whiskey in two gulps. He pushed the glass away and reached over for Swonger’s tumbler. He needed to get free of Truck Noble. Easier said than done. The man was the size of the Death Star. He doubted the old “I need to use the bathroom” bit would come off like it did in the movies. Although he kind of did need the bathroom, now that he thought about it . . .

Truck Noble didn’t view Gibson or Old Charlie as threats. He found the remote and put on SportsCenter. The office door opened a crack. Gibson had forgotten all about Margo. Old Charlie saw it too. From his angle, Gibson couldn’t see in the door, but Old Charlie could and was having a telepathic conversation with Margo. The two seemed to arrive at a silent agreement, and the old man turned to stare at Truck Noble. Truck didn’t notice at first, but at a commercial he caught Old Charlie’s stare and didn’t like it, not one bit. Gibson doubted Truck had had to say things twice very often in his life. Certainly not to run-down old men in bars.

“Tell your boy to quit staring at me,” Truck muttered to Gibson.

“He’s not my boy.”

“Tell him.”

Gibson told him, but Old Charlie kept on staring.

“I’ve been drinking here since 1967. I’ll look where I goddamn please,” Old Charlie said imperiously.

That brought Truck to his feet. He shoved Gibson toward the old man.

“I’m already done with this town, now quit staring before—”

Truck didn’t finish his threat.

Margo wrapped the baseball hat around Truck’s head. At least that’s the way it looked as the bat splintered against his skull. The meat of the bat spun through the air and rattled off a wall. Truck took a staggering step forward, absorbing the force of the blow. He wheeled on Margo. Blood poured down Truck’s neck from a gash over his ear, but he paid it no mind. Judging by the look on Margo’s face, she’d expected the fight to be over already. She dropped the broken handle of the bat and brought her hands up in time to partially block the snap right hook that Truck delivered like a comet to the side of her head. It sent her crashing face-first across a table, and Truck sprang forward, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck, pinning her to the table, while the other rained blows down on her kidneys. Margo was strong, but Truck held her down effortlessly.

Gibson hit him low, driving his shoulder into Truck’s ribs, trying to force him away from Margo. Truck didn’t budge, and Gibson felt sudden solidarity with the bug that had splattered on his windshield. Hitting Truck reminded him of wrestling with his dad when he was six or seven years old. Truck pivoted with a ballerina’s grace and flung Gibson clear. Gibson tumbled to the ground, rolled, and found his feet.

At least he’d accomplished his goal—Truck had lost all interest in Margo. That was the good news. Bad news, he seemed intent on putting Gibson’s head in orbit. Truck closed on him in the blink of an eye. A man that big shouldn’t be that quick. Gibson anticipated the same snap right hook, ducked it, but that only delivered his chin for the lefty uppercut that lifted him clean off his feet. He landed on his back and listened to cathedral bells toll, wondering who’d died. You, dummy, if you don’t get moving. His head popped up, but he couldn’t get his legs or arms to cooperate. Truck loomed over him, took a step forward, and stopped. The big man swayed drunkenly and shook his head. A mighty dry heave, and then Truck Noble vomited through his hands.

“The hell?” he puzzled aloud and dropped to one knee.

Gibson’s arms and legs came back online, and he scrambled backward as Truck Noble toppled forward. The three of them looked at each other. Gulliver down.

“What happened to him?” Margo asked.

“Baseball bat must’ve taken a minute to register.”

“I need a drink,” Old Charlie said.

Margo told him to help himself. She fetched rope, and Gibson helped her hog-tie Truck. Badly concussed, the big man passed in and out of consciousness. It took both of them to drag him to the kitchen and lock him inside the walk-in pantry.

“Go,” Margo said. “I’ll mind our friend.”

“Thank you.”

“Try not to get her killed.”

Gibson left by the back door, still wobbly on his feet. His jaw felt dislocated. He walked up a block before circling around to Tarte Street. He could see Deja’s men forcing open the front door of the Wolstenholme Hotel with a pry bar. Swonger stood among them but distinctly not of them. Gibson could hear raised voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Whatever it was, it wasn’t any too friendly. But it did make for a nice diversion. The back of the hotel might be unguarded now, but he’d need to hurry.

Gibson broke into a run.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


From beneath her hood, every sound had taken on an ominous dimension—the rustle of a curtain, a man’s cough from behind her head, the indistinct murmur of men’s voices. The effect was disorienting. Lea thought she might be back in Niobe. Maybe. She’d lost track since the massacre at the airfield. When Emerson Soto Flores had introduced himself at gunpoint, she’d been prepared to die. But the sense of peace that had gripped her at the airfield had faded, replaced by a sensible terror. Perhaps not dying had brought her back to her senses. The clarity that comes only when death runs a finger along your neck. She wanted to live but wasn’t certain if that was in the cards any longer.