Free The Shadowmen by David Hagberg Page B

was seated, and two fit-looking men dressed alike in dark blazers, white shirts, and jeans hopped out of the back. They had to wait for a break in the traffic before they could cross.
    Mac got up and headed back the way he had come. He glanced over at the two as they angled toward him, dodging traffic.
    â€œI have company,” he said. “Run the plate.” The image of the car’s rear plate enlarged for an instant and then zoomed back to normal.
    â€œGive me a couple of seconds,” Otto said. “These guys don’t look so happy.”
    Just before the casino, McGarvey turned down a narrow driveway that led back to a rear service entrance where deliveries were made. The place was deserted.
    â€œThe car is owned by Sergev Imports, Marseilles,” Otto said. “I captured the guys’ images, and I’m running through the portions of the FSB personnel files I can access, but nothing’s popped up yet.”
    â€œThey sure as hell didn’t make it all the way in response to any call tonight.”
    â€œThey were standing by someplace close waiting for you to come out of the casino. It nails the Russian connection.”
    â€œStill leaves the woman.”
    â€œI have a friend in MI6 who might be able to help out.”
    â€œCall him.”
    â€œHer,” Otto said.
    â€œI’ll see if I can get anything out of these guys,” Mac said.
    â€œThey might be armed.”
    â€œIf they wanted to shoot me, they would have made it a drive-by.”
    A pair of Dumpsters were lined up against a brick wall. McGarvey flipped open the lid of one of them, and it landed with a loud bang. He turned as the two men came around the corner.
    â€œGoing someplace, then?” the larger of the two asked, his French accent thick. Both of them were dark, the bigger one with a thin mustache and thick black hair.
    Mac took them to be Corsicans, street hoods. “Waiting to find out why you two salopards were following me. Stupid, actually, to corner someone in a back alley with no way out.”
    â€œHe opened the Dumpster—saves us the trouble of getting rid of the shit,” the slightly leaner one said in gutter French.
    â€œNot only stupid bastards but nullisime to boot,” Mac answered in street French. It roughly translated to totally worthless .
    â€œI’ll take care of this piece of garbage,” the larger man said. He pulled a steel ASP, which was a collapsible police baton, out of his belt and flipped it to its full length of twenty-one inches.
    Cops all over the world used it, in one variation or another, because in the right hands it was an effective close-quarters battle weapon. A man hit in the back of the leg at about midthigh would immediately fall to the ground. A hit to the upper arm or collarbone would paralyze that side of the body. Raising an arm or a hand to deflect the blow would only result in broken bones.
    â€œSorry. I don’t want to break these,” McGarvey said, and he pocketed the glasses.
    â€œI’ll break more than those, you son of a bitch,” the big man said as he charged.
    Mac stood his ground, a slight smile on his lips until the Corsican was on top of him, the ASP coming down. He stepped to the side and grabbed the man’s wrist with one hand while at the same time driving the side of his shoe into the guy’s left kneecap, which popped out of place. As the man went down, Mac twisted the baton out of his grasp and stepped away.
    The other Corsican pulled a Beretta semiautomatic pistol out of a shoulder holster, but before he could bring it to bear, Mac was on him, slamming the baton into his gun arm, paralyzing that side, the pistol falling to the pavement.
    McGarvey kicked the pistol away and stepped to the left so that he could keep an eye on both of them.
    â€œNow, gentlemen, who sent you to kill me?” McGarvey asked.
    The men didn’t reply. The bigger one was on the ground, his back against the