Ghosts of Manhattan Read Online Free PDF Page B

to consider pulling a pistol.

    He glanced at the weapon that was folded away beneath his right arm. The long brass barrel gleamed in the moonlight. For a moment he considered shooting the two men from a distance, safe behind the cover of the car. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. He couldn't kill in cold blood. He had to let them shoot first. That was his code, the thing that separated him from them. If they shot first, they died. For now, his fists would have to do the talking.
    The Ghost glanced around him to make sure there was no one else nearby. Then, without further ado, he heaved himself up onto the roof of the car, his black trench coat billowing around him in a sudden gust. Almost simultaneously, the two mobsters turned to look at the interloper. Their kicking ceased.
    "Hey, Mickey, it's that freak who shot up the guys at the bank." This from the goon on the left. The man's hand went inside his coat, searching for a pistol. "Let's plug him."
    The other man, wide-eyed, looked less convinced by this course of action and remained standing, rooted to the spot, staring up at the imposing figure of the vigilante atop the armored car.
    "Mickey!" The stooge's pistol barked loudly as he roared at his companion, just as the Ghost dived forward, swinging his arm out to catch the gunman beneath the chin. The man went down, heavily, his weapon skittering away across the sidewalk. He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his throat. The Ghost didn't have time to worry about what the gunman was going to do next, however, as the report of the gun had somehow stirred the other man-Mickey-back to life. He swung at the Ghost, his fist glancing painfully off the vigilante's jaw as he turned quickly to face his new opponent. A lesser man would have gone down from such a blow, but the Ghost was ready for it and simply shook his head, steadying himself for the next attack.
    Mickey was clearly a boxer. The Ghost could tell from the way he handled himself, from his stance and the power and accuracy of his blows. But the Ghost had boxed during his army years and knew what was coming. A swift jab with the left, a hook with the right, and the mobster was reeling. The Ghost brought him down with a sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the garbage bins heaped in the alleyway beside the store.

    The Ghost glanced back at the first goon, the gunman, but he was still on his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath. The shopkeeper was still out cold, and blood was pooling around his head from a number of nasty-looking wounds. His nose was clearly broken, smeared halfway across his face, and a cursory glance suggested his cheekbone had been cracked, as his face was swollen and sagging. The Ghost knew that there would be internal injuries too; the man would be lucky to pull through after the beating the Roman's men had given him.
    From behind him, the Ghost heard the sound of the car door creaking open. The driver. He hadn't been quick enough. He swept round, bringing his arms up in defense but expecting the impact of a bullet at any second. But the sight that greeted him was not at all what he was expecting.
    If there was a driver, he was still seated in the front of the armored car, and his door remained closed. Rather, the two doors at the rear of the vehicle had sprung open, and two enormous figures had emerged. They were huge, both at least seven feet tall, and dressed in long overcoats and trilby hats. Their faces were lost in shadow. They walked with a shambling gait that did not look entirely natural.
    The Ghost stepped back, swinging his right arm in a circle so that the long barrel of his flechette gun ratcheted up into place along his forearm. His breath steamed before his face in the cold night air. The two men were slowly shambling toward him, menacingly, but so far their arms remained limp at their sides. They showed no sign of bearing any weapons.
    The Ghost wasn't