Free Everybody Had A Gun by Richard Prather

long."
    Apparently there wasn't anything in front of us now, and in five seconds we were across the room and about fifteen feet from the elevator. The guy who'd remained behind was on the opposite side of the elevator from us, leaning up against the wall. I could barely see him, close as he was to the light, and I knew he couldn't see us. Not yet. But I'd have to get closer if we wanted out. I started ahead and shoved Iris back as she tried to follow me. Then I bent over and moved forward.
    I was ten feet from the guy when he moved. I sank down to my knees, with my revolver centered on his middle just in case. But nothing happened. I dug in my pants pocket with my left hand, found a coin, and pulled it out. I could make out the form of the guy a few feet from me, his right profile toward me, but I couldn't tell who he was. I drew back my left hand, then tossed the coin by him and twenty feet beyond as I got my feet under me, ready to jump forward.
    The coin hit with only a tiny thump on the carpeted floor, but I didn't have to wonder if the guy heard it. He let out a little grunt of surprise and whirled away from me toward the sound. He'd hardly stopped moving when I jumped forward, took one more big step, and jammed the muzzle of my gun into his back.
    He went "Uh!" and I hissed at him, "Not a sound, friend! Not a damned sound."
    He froze and I whispered, "Iris. Make it snappy." As soon as I said it I wished I hadn't used her name, but it was too late to worry about it. I couldn't hear her footsteps, but I knew she'd be coming up behind me as the guy in front of me started to crane his neck around.
    I'd stepped back and pulled the gun away from him as soon as I was sure he knew what the score was. When a gun's touching a man he always knows just where it is—and knowing where it is, if the guy knows what he's doing, gives him a fifty-fifty chance of batting it aside before you can pull the trigger.
    But he wasn't trying anything. He just twisted his head around far enough to see what was going on. I was curious myself about who he was. He had absurdly tiny black eyes in a thin, flat face I'd seen before, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it. He remembered me from somewhere, though.
    "Scott," he said softly. "So you're one of Sader's guns now, huh?"
    Iris touched my shoulder from behind and I was so jumpy I almost squeezed the trigger. I've stoned the hammer and sear of my gun till it's got an easy one-pound pull, and I almost squeezed a bullet through the guy. But I held back and told him, "Turn around."
    He turned obediently away from me and I lifted the revolver, slipped my finger outside the trigger guard, and slammed the gun against the base of his skull.
    He didn't make a sound on the way down. It was the only way I could think of to keep him quiet for a while, and I'd tried to sap him as gently as possible. He wasn't going to like me when and if we met again, though. There's really no such thing as a gentle sap.
    Iris and I got into the elevator and I snapped at her,
    "Work this damned thing."
    We had a long trip ahead of us and it might possibly last for eternity. She jammed a long red fingernail at a button on the wall and the door started closing like a snail with a hangover. As it crept shut a dim flash of light on the left caught my eye and I looked toward the drapes we'd come through. Light was behind them now; somebody'd found some switches. And just before the door finally eased shut, light flooded the interior of the club.
    The door was shut; we were inside the elevator; but nothing seemed to be happening. There wasn't any point in whispering now so I asked Iris, "This thing moving?"
    She nodded and her voice was twisted in her throat when she answered, "It's slow."
    That was a neat understatement if I've ever heard one.
    Iris was still wearing the half sweater and the dark blue slacks. She still had the happy tilts and the proper curves, and at close range like this it was something to see and