CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Moving with an agility that belied his age, Fieyn pistol-whipped Weasel across the back of the head. The scrawny tough screeched and crumpled, releasing his gun which clattered to the ground. At the same time, Reece moved forward with all the grace of one of those Russian dancers who had visited Chicago some years before the War, and landed a swinging left into the side of Frank’s neck, just under the ear. He went down like a deflated balloon and lay in the dirt, motionless.
“Dear God Almighty,” breathed Fieyn, squatting down to check on Weasel’s pulse. The little man was bleeding from a nasty looking gash in his scalp, “where in the hell did you learn to do that?”
Choosing to ignore the question, Reece merely shrugged before turning his attention to Otis who was standi
