Free The Lost Angel by Adam C. Mitchell Page A

silence was deafened by heavy breathing and my pounding heart. Taxis and trams distant passing permeated the stillness. Then, the silence was broken. Footsteps approached,  urging me on; fear pushed my aching legs, despite the pain shooting through them.
    Turning a corner, I clambered over upturned dustbins and an old damp fence. Arriving on a broad street, I pushed my legs harder. They gave way and I tripped, falling to my knees and sliding on the wet cobbles. Pain raced through my left knee, a distant reminder of the Bastogne and life in post-war limbo.
    The cold forced panicked tears to well, got me moving again. I ran down steps, through a rusted iron gate and stopped. It was a dead end.
    Something heavy scraped against the other side of the wall. A moment later, a thud ricocheted off the bricks, echoing inside the nothingness of my escape. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. I blinked the sting away. A moment later, they were on the street above me. I pressed tight against the wall, hugging the shadows. Biting my lip to mask the pain in my leg, I lowered my hat and focused on the top of the steps. My hand moved to my ill-fitting coat and into my pocket. The feel of cold steel brushed my sweating palm. My friend. My Colt. I checked the chamber, one bullet. I made a mental note to kick myself for not reloading, it was a rookie mistake. I knew better. I’d bought a little extra ammo that day, not much, but some, and then thinking I didn’t need to go in hot, left it behind. One bullet would be of little use against a group of heavily armed men.
    The running stopped. C licking replaced the uneasy silence as the men cocked the hammers on their guns. Looking up, I saw the outline of a thin wispy man at the top of the steps. Sweat trickled down my face. I licked my cold, sore lips, tasting salt. I had a choice to make.
    Make a stand, fight and maybe buy the farm, or run and take a bullet in the back. Tough choice.
    I pointed my Colt at the shadow. Waiting scared me, but I did it. Staring at the wispy shadow I tried my best to control the wave of fear.
    “This way!” The words echoed from further up the street. The running began again, pounding the wet flags and getting faint. Seconds later, they turned the corner and were gone. I tucked my gun in my trench coat and climbed the eleven stone steps, looking down the long street to the corner. I headed in the opposite direction. Eddy Kovakx, you are one lucky guy.
     
    III
    At my lodgings in the poorly named Sunrise apartments, I took out my gun and spun the barrel, a ritual I’d always done for luck, and put it under my pillow. The drab room was thick with dust. Sickly green wallpaper hung from the walls, revealing damp underneath. It was poorly lit, with only a working table lamp. I pulled out the brown paper bundle from my jacket. Whatever the package contained, those men nearly got it, and me too.
    I ripped the crumpled paper off a sleek wooden black ebony box. Inside was a roll of banknotes as thick as my wrist, maybe a thousand dollars. Some old sheets of paper were wrapped around the wad. I tossed them aside but then noticed the writing on them. Tony had been so drunk he’d made little sense, going on about his ‘big job’ and ‘a grand score’. A few more minutes and I’d have gotten a lot more information out the shmuck. The bullet stopped that.
    I laid the papers on the bed. They were plans, scribbled plans for a robbery. The layout of the new jazz club. The doors and windows, the times of openings. Everything. The job was set for three days’ time and I was going to be there.
    At the bottom of the page, written in sloppy handwriting, was a name: RUDY VANNETTI - HEAD BARMAN. I figured he was the inside man, Tony Santeeni’s contact. The plans talked about a drop-off but the time was missing. Vannetti didn’t know it yet, but he was about to get a new partner
    * * *
    The Lost Angel was new and exciting. The sounds of the jazz club filled the early evening air