Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Read Online Free PDF

It
stood to reason that mailing his notes to his own box or that of a trusted ally
was a perfectly safe way to accomplish this. I thought myself pretty smart at
that moment.
    Until the voice from the shadows said, “What is so special that made you
come back here and break into a crime scene?”

Chapter
Ten
     
    I froze. Since the police tape was in place,
it never occurred to me that someone else might be here. I didn’t know if he
had a gun. But I recognized the German accent and knew he was a Nazi.
    My back was to the man, shielding the little pile of debris. In a second,
I made a decision: I held the receipts over the lighter. They flashed with
fire. I angled the paper, creating a larger flame, then tossed it onto the pile
of envelopes.
    The odor of the burning paper tipped off my assailant. “Hey,” he yelled,
striding forward.
    I kicked out my leg, catching him in the shins. He tumbled on top of me,
but I still had one knee under me. I rolled him up and over, keeping his
falling momentum going. He landed next to the burning pile of paper. The whoosh
of his air sent sparks into the air. Some landed on his face. He frantically
brushed them off, cursing as he did so.
    I stood and made to kick him. He caught my foot before it struck his
face. Turning his grip savagely, he twisted. I crashed to the ground, smacking
my face on the floor. I kicked out with my other foot and managed to connect with
something. His grip loosened and I scrambled away from him, trying to turn in
time to intercept whatever he was about to dish out.
    From outside the front window, headlights came on. The light beamed
straight into the kitchen window on the side of the house. I heard the sound of
a car door opening and closing.
    Damn.
    My assailant’s back was to the light, leaving his face in shadow. But I
could easily see his size as he stood and raised his mitts. He had me by at
least five inches and fifty pounds. I’m not a pip-squeak, but compared to him,
I was a lightweight.
    He advanced. I grabbed a chair and swung it at him. He blocked it with a
forearm, splintering the wood and jarring my skeleton from the inside out. I
tried yanking it back for another blow but the thug held it in his iron grip.
He shoved it and I tumbled backwards, falling on my ass and into the sideboard.
Bottles and glasses tinkled and fell over. A bottle of whiskey crashed and
broke, its distinctive odor wafting in the room.
    The thug had the chair in his grip and raised it over his head to deck
me. I was up against a wall with nowhere to go. I cursed myself for leaving my
gun in the glove compartment. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket for the
only other weapon I had, but I needn’t have bothered.
    From the darkness, two flashes of light lit up the room. The deafening
sound of gunshots rang in my ears. The thug crumpled to the floor, the chair
crashing down on his limp form.
    I thought I heard someone screaming, then I realized it was me.
    Facing the doorway from which the blasts had come, I saw a figure. Smoke
from the gun was wafting up into the shaft of light from the blinds. As the
person stepped forward, lowering the gun, I caught the red hair and the eyes.
    Lillian Saxton.
    “Most people say thanks when someone’s done them a favor,” she cooed,
“especially if that favor is saving a life.”
    I stood, my legs a bit wobbly. Forcing myself to breathe normally, I
tried to regain some of my manly demeanor that had been ripped away by my
girlie scream.
    “Thanks,” I said, my voice not quite steady.
    She smirked. “You might need to grow a backbone if you expect to last as
a P.I.”
    “As long as no one’s shooting at me,” I said, “I should be all right.”
    “In this line of work, not likely.” She paused, looking out the window.
“We’d better get out of here. That’s the second set of gunfire in this
neighborhood in a day. The police won’t take long in coming.”
    I cocked my head. “What do you mean ‘we’? I have something to do.