“Turn left here,” he said. “There’s a nice spot down this road. Just a little way farther, Larrigan. Time will seem a lot shorter after you get there.”
They rode on for a few miles. Then the man in the back seat gave a sharp command, and Larrigan halted the car at the side of the road.
“Get out,” said Monk.
Larrigan obeyed. He stood with his hands above his head, while his captor felt his pockets and removed his two automatics.
“Spirak had four of these,” taunted Thurman. “They didn’t do him much good though, did they?”
He pushed Larrigan forward to a small tree. He commanded the Irishman to turn around. Larrigan obeyed. He stood there, awaiting the shots that would send him to eternity.
But Monk Thurman made no move. A distant clock struck two. Larrigan expected it to be the hour of his death.
Then Monk Thurman spoke slowly and distinctly, as though to impress every word on Larrigan’s mind.
“You’re yellow, Larrigan,” he said. “Yellow, like all of your tribe, and the rest of these Chicago mobsters.
“You want a man to stand on the spot, while you shoot him. Just like you’re standing now. That was the way you were going to get me.