The Pawnbroker Read Online Free Page B

zone, but he still felt naked without it, especially after this morning.
    Climbing out, Charlie locked the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “How much would a name change cost anyway, not including the sign? Would we have to update the business licence and crap like that?”
    Gordon had his key in the first of two door locks. “Yeah, maybe we should put that money into conducting business right now. Being closed cost us a day’s income.”
    â€œCopy that. Once we nail Gina’s shooter, we’ve got to turn a profit if we’re going to make this place work for us.”
    Gordon opened the second lock, pocketed the key, and turned the knob. “Maybe an electronic lock here?” he suggested, opening the door.
    â€œSomething to consider down the line. Go ahead,” Charlie said, holding the door. Gordon slipped in, set the food down on top of a used microwave oven on the counter, then reached up to the wall panel and entered the alarm code.
    Charlie used his own key to lock the door on the inside, looked to make made sure the closed sign was still in place, then punched in a higher setting on the central air, which activated the furnace.
    â€œCold and as dry as Kabul in September,” Gordon said, picking up the food and heading down the aisle toward the back office.
    A shadow to the right, at the end of one of the display rows, moved slightly.
    â€œRight on, Ike,” Charlie said, trying to avoid any change in tone as he slipped the Beretta out of his waistband, looking toward the shadow.
    They’d learned, years ago, to read each other’s minds. Gordon set down the bag, reaching for his own weapon after recognizing their old code words. Ike meant insurgent to them, and right indicated the direction.
    â€œHow many sopapillas you want?” Gordon replied, watching in the direction Charlie was indicating, unholstering his own Beretta.
    â€œOne, I think.”
    Gordon covered Charlie as he inched forward, weapon down by his side, safety off. A quick glance had told him nothing seemed disturbed, so if the intruder was a burglar, he’d either taken something small, had just showed up, or was there for another reason.
    Charlie reached the end of the aisle. The guy was somewhere close. Then he remembered the mirrors and looked up on the wall. He saw the guy just as he lunged. The blow knocked him to the floor, flat on his back as the guy moved a big screwdriver toward his throat with a gloved hand.

 
    Chapter Three
    Charlie clocked the guy on the side of his head with the Beretta, using his other hand to grab the arm that held the tool.
    The attacker grunted, struggling for Charlie’s gun hand while trying to break the grip on his wrist. Charlie slammed him in the head again with the pistol, using the momentum to roll up and over, pinning the guy to the floor. Astride him now, he stuck the barrel of his Beretta into the man’s ear.
    A shoe came down, Gordon’s, pinning the attacker’s makeshift weapon to the floor. His fingers pinched, and maybe broken now despite the gloves, the slender attacker yelled, “I give! Don’t shoot!”
    Charlie kept the barrel pressed into his ear, looking him over carefully. The guy was wearing tight-fitting black leather gloves and had on expensive athletic shoes, jeans, and a dark green knit shirt. He was maybe thirty and had no obvious regional accent, as far as they could tell so far. He had pale blue eyes and styled yellow hair just a little too long to be current military, with a broad, Slavic-looking face and good teeth. If Charlie had ever seen the guy before, he didn’t remember.
    â€œYou’ve got five seconds to tell me your name and what the hell you’re doing in here,” Charlie said, cocking the hammer for effect, but taking his finger off the trigger. The towheaded guy was bleeding above the ear and would be showing a bruise, but nobody else had to die today. Not yet,