Chapter Seven

As Pascal edged to where the Lincoln was parked with the dark man following behind, his mind worked swiftly. Any moment from now, he felt the man behind might slip up. He might come too close before they got to the Lincoln. Then that would be his chance, he thought.

As they reached the Lincoln, the signaling lights of the Lincoln flashed. Pascal stopped abruptly, but the gun nudged him forward.

“Get in the driver’s side.”

With fallen shoulders, he got the car door open and got in. His gamble hadn’t come off. The thought that he might be dealing with a man as efficiently professional as himself brought cold sweat to his forehead.

The dark man got in the back and settled himself directly behind Pascal.

“Get us to the agency,” he said and relaxed back into the luxury of the car.

Ten minutes of steady driving with the speedometer needle flickering over forty and fifty brought them to Rico Truck Agency.

Pascal sounded the horn twice at the big gate. He had this sick feeling he was only a few minutes from death. He had to think of a way out, and he had to do that fast.

“Listen, pal, I know the dude on today's shift; some slick fellow. He might be in one of these clubs in downtown Miami having himself a good time with some girl he's recently caught while we stay here hooting-”

The abrupt movement of the gate stopped the words in his throat. The high beams of the Lincoln beamed on a rotund man in his late sixties as he rolled open the gate.

Jason Carter had been gateman now for the past ten years. He was a man who hardly slept. He believed sleep was for the younger man. What all old men like him could do at night was lie in bed and relive good old memories. He had heard the Lincoln hoot, and surprised, he had rushed out to open the gate.

“Tell him the boss wants to check some papers in his office shortly, that he should leave the gate open.” The dark man spoke for the first time since leaving the underground garage.

Pascal engaged gear, drove through the gate and, as he paused beside Carter, he felt the barrel of the silencer dig into his side.

“Speak out loud. I'd like to hear your voice,” the dark man whispered.

He did as he was told and drove into the agency.

Carter thought there was something wrong with Pascal. Well, maybe the young man isn't too happy to have had his sleep disturbed. Shrugging, he walked down to a chair in front of his lodge and sat down.

Pascal brought the Lincoln to a stop between two trucks.

“There's the boss’ office.” He pointed to the door at the end of a rectangular building lined with offices.

The dark man got out of the car, then he signaled for Pascal to follow suit. Pascal dropped.

“As we move to that office, you might have the temptation of sliding behind one of these trucks, but I assure you, such rash actions will be unhealthy. I'm after some files. Let me have them, and you'll be safe.”

And with a rough shove from the gun, he set Pascal moving.

Pascal peered at the face of the dark man before moving. He didn't make out much from the face as the man had his back to the security light and his face was in darkness.

As they approached the truck, Pascal saw his chance of getting behind it. But, the words of the dark man echoed in his mind, “I'm after some files, let me have them, and you'll be safe.” Why not let him have them, then go after him later? He didn't know how fast this man was with a gun.

As they passed the truck, Pascal told himself, if he were to try anything, it was now or never. If he waited for a second longer, the opportunity would pass. But he could not bring himself to do anything. The cold professional manner of the man behind him hinted at speed, and with the barrel of the gun, he could feel grinding into his spine, he warned himself against such foolishness.

They reached the office.

“Get the door open,” the dark man said from behind him.

“I think we left behind a vital instrument. The…”

He was still speaking when he felt the butt of the gun slammed down against the back of his neck.

White-hot pain ran through him, and he stifled a cry. His left hand rubbed the back of his neck as his right hand felt in his pocket for a pick-lock.

He found it, inserted it into the keyhole. It took him a few seconds to turn the lock and, opening the door, both men edged into the office.

“Get your butt on the chair behind the desk. I want you where I can monitor you.” The dark man motioned him to the executive chair they could just make out in the darkness.

With the pain still nudging him at the back of his neck and holding a hand to it, he moved compliantly as an obstinate child who had just been tamed. He reached behind the desk as the lights came up. The thought that with the light now, he could see the face of the dark man came to his mind, but he dared not turn around. Any movement he made now with his neck drove sharp pain down his spine.

He continued to the chair, sat down, and looked up.

His face suddenly went white, his mouth became dry as he stiffly gaped at the tall dark man standing a few feet from the door with the gun pointing at him.

“Gorevoy?”

Beads of sweat popped out from the side of his face and went trickling down to his neck. So, this was how it was, he thought, and suddenly; he was afraid to die.

He attempted to shout for help. His mouth opened, but that was as far as he went. The slug caught him in the center of his forehead, shattering his brain.s

Gorevoy turned off the lights, edged out of the office, closed the door, and with the headlights of the Lincoln off, he drove out of the agency.