Read David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good for Free Online Page A

with
the combination on a black leather briefcase was of no concern to me at all.
            The fact that he pulled
a Sig Sauer pistol from his overall pocket a second later was a different story
altogether. A P226. It looked clean. Factory fresh, even. A nice weapon. I remember thinking it was a little
extravagant for a low level burglar even as I kicked it out of his hand. It
flew across the room and crashed against something metal - maybe the radiator -
but I kept my eyes locked on the man. I was worried he’d pull out a knife or a
backup piece. But that didn’t seem to cross his mind. There was no hesitation. He
just dropped the briefcase and came at me with his fists, relentlessly
combining flurries of sharp jabs and hooks.
            I carried on moving and
blocking, trying to frustrate him and wear him down, until he finally pulled
away about eighteen inches. He dropped his head and let his shoulders slacken,
but I also saw him shift his balance. It was a feint. I guessed he was looking
to change tack and catch me with a kick so I stepped aside, then as he came
forward I moved straight back in and swept his standing leg. He crashed down
onto his back and immediately rolled to his left. But he wasn’t just trying to
get away. He was trying to retrieve the Sig. He landed with his fingertips two
inches from the grip and started to wriggle frantically forward so, short of options,
I snatched up the chair he’d been sitting on and smashed it down across the
back of his head.
            The guy was left
completely still. He was touching the gun with his right hand, and his upper
body was surrounded with splintered fragments of the chair’s wooden frame. Only
its seat remained intact, and that had come to rest upside down near the foot
of the bed. Someone had drawn a frowning face on the underneath in white chalk.
I knew how they felt. Because my chances of asking any
questions had been pretty much destroyed, too, along with the furniture. There was no hope of the guy waking up before anyone raised the alarm, with the
amount of noise that had been made. Lydia McCormick would try to bury me with
her forms. And the police would have a field day, as soon as they heard about
the firearm. My only hope was to find something that I could follow up on my
own, like a name or address or phone number, then make myself scarce. I could
see the guy’s wallet peeping out from one of his pockets. I figured that would
be a good place to start, so I reached down and worked it free. And at exactly
the same moment, I heard the door crash open, behind me.
            I’d expected to see a
hospital security guard standing there, or possibly a medic. But I was wrong.
It was the woman in the wheelchair. She was on her own this time, with no sign
of a real porter to push her.
            “Evening,” I said. “Is
this your room? Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand.”
            “A little?” she said,
looking at the guy’s prostrate body.
            “It’s not as bad as it
looks. We’ll soon get everything cleaned up.”
            “I don’t think we’ll
soon do anything. What are you doing here?”
            “Well, I just was
passing by and saw this chap trying to steal your briefcase. So I stopped him.”
            “Really?” the woman said
as she wheeled herself forward, coming fully into the room. “I don’t believe
you. So let’s try this, instead. I want you face down, on the ground. Fingers
laced behind your head. Legs spread. And I want you there right now.”
            “I beg your pardon?” I
said.
            “You heard.”
            “You’re right. I did
hear. Only I was expecting something more along the lines of a ‘thank you’ for
stopping your stuff from being taken.”
            “He wasn’t trying to take
anything. And you’re the one holding somebody else’s wallet in your hand. So,
get on the