Blind by Francine Pascal Page B

chest. He studied the thugs for a moment. Broken Nose had a German accent. The mustache man had something of a Cuban look. Noel. Noel he couldn’t place at all. Tom wondered briefly about the background of these three, but it didn’t really matter. Only one thing mattered tonight. “I’m looking for someone.”
    â€œFor Loki.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    The woman studied him for a few minutes, her eyes like red coins behind the tinted glasses. “You are twins.”
    â€œSomething like that,” said Tom. “So, why don’t you help out a wayward relation and tell me where to find him?”
    It took the woman two long pulls and two slow exhales of smoke before she answered. “Why don’t you share a little information with me? Once I know some more about you, maybe I’ll be willing to share.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œWe could start with your name.” It was a simple enough question, but as the woman asked it, she was no longer looking at Tom. She was looking over his right shoulder.
    Tom didn’t make an attempt to answer. Instead he kicked hard to his left, tipping over his chair, coming down on one shoulder and coming up with the wooden chair in his hands. A gunshot snapped pastthe side of his head, and he felt and splinters fly from the surface of the table.
    The man with the mustache was on his feet. Behind him the broad-shouldered man in the T-shirt was starting into the room, his gun drawn. The woman was up. Broken Nose was moving. Everybody was moving.
    A knife came from Tom’s left. He swung the chair hard against a skull. The chair broke into a dozen pieces. Mustache fell like a sack of potatoes. Tom dropped and took down T-shirt with a sweep of his leg. He then tucked and rolled as another gunshot chipped at the ancient floor tiles. Back on his feet, Tom put a stiff hand into Broken Nose’s gut and a fist into the already injured face. Broken Nose screamed. Then he went down and stayed down. All three men were out of the picture. That only left…
    A blow struck Tom in the side with such force that it spun him around and sent him staggering against the concrete wall. He shook off the effect and turned toward the woman.
    Despite everything, the little black cigarillo was still in Noel’s mouth and a faint smile was on her lips. “You not only look like him,” she said. “You fight like him.”
    â€œI hope not,” said Tom. He came at her in a crouch. Aimed a kick toward her thigh.
    The red-eyed woman blocked, countering with anelbow that sent Tom’s breath burning back up his throat.
    He avoided a follow-up blow, put a fist into her side, and drew back to the other side of the scarred card table.
    It wasn’t until an incredible pain bloomed on Tom’s left arm that he realized that (1) the woman had a pistol, (2) she was shooting at him, and (3) he was hit.
    Before a second shot could find him, Tom grabbed the edge of the round table and flipped it toward the woman. Bullets punched through the tabletop, showering Tom with splinters, but he rushed forward, pinning the woman against the wall. There was a satisfying grunt as she struck the concrete, followed by the clatter of the gun striking the floor. The woman scrambled free and made a dive for the gun. Tom kicked it away. He aimed a second kick toward her, but she grabbed his foot and gave his leg a painful twist that forced Tom to stagger back.
    He winced as he watched the woman climb to her feet and turn to face him.
Twenty years ago,
he thought,
this would have been over in a second.
But it wasn’t twenty years ago, and the warmth spreading along Tom’s arm meant that blood was flowing from his wound. He had to end this soon.
    The woman went on the attack, launching a quick series of kicks, jabs, more kicks. It was all Tom coulddo to stay on his feet. He circled left, protecting his injured arm. He was breathing very hard