Robert Moore

Hard guys and hostages

Chapter One

Butch tripped and fell on the way up the three steps leading to the back door, and that set a dog barking somewhere in the outbuildings. Max swore and looked at Butch in a threatening way. Pete was trying not to laugh and, at the same time, was looking a little pissed off himself at Butch. But it was really no use getting pissed off at Butch, any more than it would be worthwhile getting pissed off at a six-year-old kid. Butch looked a little ashamed of himself (as always when he'd done something stupid) and picked up the gun he'd dropped. He wiped it on the leg of the pants he'd taken off the body of the fat guy who had stopped to give Pete a ride.

Max tried the door just in case, but, of course, it was locked. Anyone living this far out in the boonies would have the sense to lock the doors at night. The dog stopped barking, and Max listened. There wasn't a sound from the house. He laid his shoulder against the door and pushed a little. It wasn't like a Greek Orthodox church, but it wasn't ready to buckle at a sneeze, either. Max beckoned to Butch, and the big gorilla leaned close to him.

"See if you can open it up without waking half the county, will you?" Butch nodded and put the gun in his pocket. A gun never looked very impressive in his hands. It always looked like a toy. He put one hand on the knob, completely obscuring it, and with the other he got as good a grip as he could on the door frame. He pushed on the door a few times, each time a little harder than the last. The door made a grating sound as metal rubbed against metal. The house was old and the wood was probably more than a little rotten.

Butch looked at Max and grinned and leaned down again and put a little of his back into it. The door went in a little further this time and stayed that way. Another shove and Butch forced the lock apart. There wasn't a chain, and if there was a latch the owner hadn't thrown it.

Inside it was like any old fashioned farm house. They walked from the service porch to the kitchen, and then into a hall that led the length of the place. There were two bedrooms to the right of the hill, and a dining room and a living room to the left. Between the service porch and the dining room was a single bathroom, and at the other end, clear across the front of the place, was a screened-in porch. There wasn't anyone in the place.

Naturally Butch started to turn on a light as soon as they had made sure no one was there. Max stopped him with an impatient gesture. "We keep the place dark," he said. "The owners will be coming back sometime tonight, and we want them to walk in without suspecting anything. Right?" Butch thought that one over for a moment.

"Oh, sure. Sure, I didn't think o' that, Max," he said apologetically.

They sat in the living room with their guns across their laps. Max made a search of the closets first and found a shotgun and a rifle in one of them. There was some ammunition, too, and he loaded the two weapons and gave the shotgun to Pete. Pete liked a shotgun. He had used one in all of his jobs.

While they were waiting, Max turned on an old-fashioned radio, and they listened to the bulletins about themselves. The bulletins would have been encouraging if they had been trustworthy. The trouble was, you could never believe them. The State Cops were cagier than that.

About one o'clock in the morning a car turned down the long, graveled drive that led from the highway. Pete sat up a little straighter with the pump action shotgun ready in his hands, and Max reached out with one foot and nudged Butch, who had been snoring softly for a half hour. He turned off the radio and hissed to Pete, "Go around to the back door, just in case they come in that way. If they see the busted door they may try to get out of here. Don't let 'em."