His captors, doubtless in the employ of Scorpia, had simply threatened or bribed his own taxi driver to clear out. The two cars looked much alike in the dark, and Red had been too unsuspecting to notice the difference, until a gun poked him in the face. As he sat there fuming at his own stupidity, the second plug-ugly came back from across the street.
“I phoned de house an’ asked wot ta do wid him,” the fellow reported. “De guy I talked to said ta leave him in de garage tied up, and turn off de lights.” “Okay!” grunted the second mobster. “I guess the big shots wanna give him the once-over. If he’s one of them Navy Intelligence ducks they’ll prob’ly bump him off, or burn him in their Chinese torture room. Anyhow, it ain’t none of our business.... Come on, you punk! Git out an’ put your hands behind you!”
The last words were addressed to Red, and emphasized by a wicked jab of the pistol barrel that raised a welt along the young officer’s jaw. Pretending to be frightened speechless. Red obeyed, but his brain was working at top speed to figure out a break.
At the first touch of the gangster’s rope, Red’s crossed wrists flew apart. Sweeping up, his hands caught his enemy by the head. With a powerful forward heave he hurled the thug’s body over his shoulder, then whirled to grapple the second man.
A pistol barked, its bullet grazing Red’s arm. The next instant he had wrenched the weapon away by a swift jiu-jitsu trick, sending its owner reeling with a right hook.
“Now we’ll see who’s runnin’ this party!” he growled. “Hands up or I’ll—”
WHAP!
A blackjack wielded by the first mobster slapped Red’s unprotected head. The bulky officer collapsed without a groan.
“Tha fat spy! I hope ya killed him!” rasped the man whose jaw Red had cracked. “He made my teeth ache right down to my heels!”
“Shut up and grab hold of his legs, Gimpy!” the other retorted. “If I did kill him, we got an alibi. He was threatenin’ us with your gun! Anyway, we’ll shove him in the garage and let the big shots worry about wakin’ him up.”