Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Don’t hesitate. Put him down.

Sooner than Thatcher could think it, he fired at the bridge of Hennessy’s nose. The man showed an instant of surprise, then fell back, dead before he hit the floor. But when he released Laurel, she went somersaulting down the stairs. Thatcher realized her hands were bound.

He shouted her name, but got no answer.

A bullet struck the floor within an inch of his face, sending up splintered wood. A chunk hit him on the cheekbone, barely missing his eye. He rolled away from where he was, came up in a crouch, and took cover behind a table.

“Bill, you okay?”

“I want these sons o’ bitches.”

“Hennessy’s not a worry.”

“Dead?”

“Yep.”

“Hear that, Bernie?” Bill taunted. “Your hired gun is in hell.”

Their repartee had given Thatcher time to scan the room. He couldn’t see Gert, but figured she was behind the bar, reloading. It had to have been Croft’s shot that had struck the floor near him, which gave him an idea of the mayor’s accuracy. He wasn’t a bad shot.

He waited, crazy to know where Laurel was. Was her neck broken, her back? Had she hit her head and was lying unconscious and defenseless?

Croft showed his head above the bar. Both Thatcher and Bill fired a volley. Soda pop bottles shattered against the back of the bar, but Thatcher got no indication that Croft had been hit.

Where was Gert and that goddamn shotgun?

Bill was off to Thatcher’s left. When Croft raised his head again, Bill fired two shots. Thatcher used the cover to take up another position. He still couldn’t see Laurel. He couldn’t place Gert, either, and that bothered him. He would have expected another blast from the shotgun by now. Unless one of their shots had struck her and she was down.

Couldn’t count on that. Too much to hope for.

He had to know where Laurel was and if she was hurt. From his present vantage point, he couldn’t see the bottom of the staircase where he featured her crumpled, broken, bleeding.

Croft was keeping him and Bill pinned down.

A shadow fell across the screened door. Croft fired at it. The shadow disappeared.

Thatcher, who was nearest the door, whispered, “Who’s that?”

“Scotty.”

“Hennessy’s dead. Croft’s behind the bar. Have you seen Gert?”

“No. Mrs. Plummer?”

“Alive when we got here. Now…” Thatcher couldn’t bring himself to venture a guess.

“What do you want me to do, Thatcher?”

“Stay put, but be ready.”

While carrying on the whispered conversation with the deputy through the screen, Thatcher had reloaded. Bill, who’d been exchanging potshots with Croft, also had to pause to reload. Thatcher waited until he was done, then motioned to Bill that he was going to intentionally draw Croft’s fire, giving Bill a chance at him.

Bill acknowledged.

Thatcher took a breath, then surged to his feet and ran toward the staircase, banging into tables, overturning chairs, reaching across his torso to fire back toward the bar.

Croft took the bait. As soon as he showed himself, he and Bill exchanged a barrage. From beneath his left arm, Thatcher turned and fired three rounds at Croft before diving beneath a table. He rolled onto his back and fired toward Croft again, but he had disappeared behind the bar.

Thatcher flipped the table onto its side and hunkered behind it so he could reload. “Bill?”

“Bernie’s hit. Wounded, at least.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Thatcher knew that wasn’t true. He was breathing like a man who’d been hit. But where? How bad? He couldn’t ask without also giving Croft the advantage of knowing.

“Bill, can you cover me?”

There was a grunt, then, “Ready.”

Thatcher sprang up and sprinted over to the staircase.

There was no sign of Laurel. Not below, midway, or above.

* * *



She tumbled. On her way down, one body part or another struck every tread of the steep staircase. She landed hard. The wind was knocked out of her.

“Laurel!”

The first time Thatcher had called out to her, Hennessy’s hand had been over her mouth. She couldn’t respond this time, either, because she hadn’t regained her breath. And Gert had been waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase.

She crammed a sour dishcloth into Laurel’s mouth and lifted her off the floor. The madam was more solidly built even than Hennessy and seemed twice as strong. She was certainly as mean and merciless.

Laurel struggled, but without the use of her arms, and with every inch of her body pulsing in pain, she was virtually defenseless. But she’d be damned before she gave up.

In an attempt to get Thatcher’s attention, she banged her heels against the hardwood floor. But, as she did, gunfire exploded, seeming to come from all directions at once and drowning out the sound.

Gert hit her on the temple with the barrel of the shotgun, dazing her. She had the will but not the coordination to resist when she was dragged past the bar, into a narrow passage, and through a door. The area into which Gert shoved her was darker, cooler, and smelled of booze.

Head still reeling, she realized that she was in Lefty’s infamous back room.

In the front room, Thatcher was in a gunfight. Thatcher could die.