Free The Last Hard Men by Brian Garfield

everybody in the back corner of the office and left them there on the floor—everybody but the paymaster. Portugee knotted the paymaster’s hands behind his back and prodded him in the kidney with the muzzle of the automatic. The paymaster stumbled forward.
    Provo said, “Where’s the safe? Back in that room?”
    “Ye-yes. But you won’t——”
    “Please don’t tell me I’ll never get away with it,” Provo said. “Just give us the combination.” He was walking the man into the back office as he spoke.
    The vault was built into the back wall. Big, substantial, with wheels on it like steamship valves. There were two big combination dials.
    The paymaster whimpered and Provo struck him along the cheek with the barrel of his gun. “Quit it. The combination. I ain’t going to ask again.”
    “I’ve only g-g-got half of it, mister. I swear to God. The company manager, he’s got the combination to the other d-dial.”
    “And where’s this company manager?”
    “D-d-d-down at the depot.”
    It didn’t surprise Provo. He propelled the paymaster back to the outer office. “Tie him down and gag him. Lee Roy, in here. Get to work.”
    Lee Roy lugged his sack in and looked around. “Sheeyit. That’s a big ’un.”
    “Don’t stand there griping. Just blow it.”
    “Will you quit awderin’ me around, Zach? Jesus.” Lee Roy studied the furniture. “Reckon I’ll have to back that big desk up against it to shape the charge. Christ, Zach, I’m gonna have to use all the blastin’ powder—it’ll make a cocksucker of a noise.”
    “Get busy,” Provo said, and went back to the outer office. He set his hip on the corner of a desk and talked mildly at the four bound-and-gagged prisoners. “In a few minutes my associate’s going to blow up that vault in there. You’ll know when it’s coming. When you do, I suggest you open your mouths and breathe easy through your mouths. Otherwise the explosion might bust your eardrums. Hear?”
    Portugee shoved the paymaster down on the floor with the other four. Then he went over by the front door with George Weed and stood there cleaning his fingernails with the point of an ugly-looking knife he’d taken off a Mexican in the shack in Gila Bend. Portugee was never comfortable without a knife in his hand.
    One of the women was fat and middle-aged. Her swollen cheeks were wet with tears; she was whimpering like an injured animal through the gag in her mouth. Provo glanced at her with his ungiving face but said nothing.
    It seemed a long time. Sweat trickled down Provo’s spine inside his shirt and linen duster. Menendez walked across the room and propped the back door fully open, and then came into the center of the room and stood slant-eyed, watching the door where Lee Roy would appear when Lee Roy’s job was done.
    Portugee said to George Weed, “Sure takin’ his fucking time in there.” The two black-skinned men stood watching the front door; Weed grunted but made no other answer.
    One of the prisoners was breathing hard, in asthmatic rasps. Provo went over to make sure the gag wasn’t choking him, but it was just fear that made the clerk wheeze. The eyes blinked like semaphores. Provo said mildly, “Take it easy, nobody’s going to shoot you,” and ambled back to the desk.
    Portugee said, “They seen our faces. They can identify us.”
    “It’s all right,” Provo said. “Burgade will figure out who done this quick enough anyway.” He smiled just a little. It occurred to him to go over and open the window inside the storage closet; but he didn’t bother; the blast would probably knock some walls down anyway, and everybody within miles would hear it. That was all right, too. He wanted noise.
    In time Lee Roy appeared in the doorway. “All rat. I’m fixin’ to light the fuse. Won’t give us more’n about ten seconds. Everybody get behint some kand of cover. Leave me a space by that desk there.” He turned around and disappeared back into the