Reality Bites Read Online Free PDF Page A

smiled, kissed Denny’s cheek, and held out her hand to the man.  ‘Shall we?’
    As she reached the door she turned and snapped her fingers, she winked.  Denny felt his ropes loosen suddenly.
    What ? Then he realised the moment had come. The man had left the door unlocked only two guards remained, and one of those was sleeping.  It was probably a trap but what the hell?  It was now or never. He did not stop to wonder what Tamar was going to do; he just hoped that his feeling about the white faced man was wrong.
    * * *
    The watcher was stationed in a dark alley waiting for Stiles who often used this route as a short cut home.  The dark figures were clustering more thickly around him lately, and the watcher was worried.  Time for some action
    From an interesting vantage point, positioned in a handstand above the street on some handy scaffolding, the watcher could see that Stiles had picked up another stalker, a large, muscular man who moved with surprising stealth for someone so large.
    Stiles himself was oblivious to all his shadows. He was staggering – drunk as a prom queen – that was something at least.
    As Stiles turned into the alley, the dark figures attacked.  The watcher was ready for this and swung down form the scaffolding pole in a smooth motion knocking two of them aside.  The muscular man ran forward and grabbed another by the neck, flinging it easily into a wall.  The watcher now recognised him as a friend and colleague of Stiles one of his subordinates.  The watcher broke an iron bar off the scaffolding with amazing ease for such a slight person, and began batting heads with incredible speed and dexterity.
    Stiles struggled from his stupor and recognised his friend. ‘Finchley?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
    The watcher turned to Finchley.  ‘Take him home – I’ll deal with this.’
    Finchley nodded; he was not, from the watcher’s observations, overly bright.  But even he could see that the mysterious hooded figure, whose face he could not see, could handle this alone, and he should get his boss, who was his priority anyway, to safety.
    In any case, Finchley was programmed to take orders without question – not one of life’s leaders.
    The watcher called out after them as they lurched away. ‘Make sure you stay with him, and for God’s sake don’t let him sober up.’
    ‘ What ?’ Finchley was shocked.  But the watcher was busy; Finchley shrugged and took his boss by the shoulders and guided him, swaying, away from the carnage.
    * * *
    They had treated Denny like a hero – there’s a first time for everything.  Yet it had all been surprisingly easy, too easy really – or was he just being paranoid? 
    He had shaken off his ropes, lunged at the guard and hit him with a telephone; the guard had gone down with a grunt and lay still on the floor; Denny had grabbed his knife.
    Then the sleeping guard had woken up and fired his gun at Denny with no discernible result.  He had shaken it and looked down the barrel in confused fear, backing away as Denny rounded on him pointing the knife threateningly.  He collapsed in a corner whimpering.  Just to be sure, Denny took the gun from him and brought it down on his head with a sharp crack.  The hostages cheered and Denny shushed them, pointing meaningfully at the door.  He then cut their hands and feet free, and they stood up painfully cramped and crippled with pins and needles.
    ‘Come on,’ he whispered.  In the outer room, they found the third guard lying dead over the bar.
    ‘Tamar?’ wondered Denny. The way was clear, however, so he sent the others out into the cloakroom and looked around for her.  There was another door; it led to a small office. He went in; Tamar was there, white faced and shaking, there was no sign of the man with the blanched face and Denny did not ask. ‘Later,’ he thought.
    Outside the police wrapped them in blankets and gave them cups of tea.  A strangely orange complexioned TV journalist