The Harlequin awoke to a throbbing head and the feel of cold ice on the back of his neck. He was on the floor in the lounge, his legs splayed out before him, and his hands were both handcuffed to the radiator. Seated before him on the leather sofa was Gorilla Grant, holding the Sig Sauer with the suppressor attached, and while the weapon wasn't directly pointed in his direction, the Harlequin was under no illusions that the old assassin would use it if he had to. There was a glass of bourbon on the table next to him; it had the look of being half empty rather than half full.
“You were only out for about ten minutes,” said Grant. “I hit you harder than I meant to, I'm sorry, but the ice pack should help in a little while.”
The Harlequin said nothing, simply glared at his enemy. There was
