"It's early in the day for it," Roy said, "but how about a drink? I could use one. That dizzard almost accomplished what he came for."
Mary Ann looked at him in alarm. "You don't mean that he fired a dart at you!"
"No. But I was nearly squashed to death under Billy, here."
As Ron went over to the bar to take orders, there came the blat-blat-blat of a copter outside.
Dick Samuelson took up his automatic carbine and went out through the French windows to threaten it off. It wasn't anything new. Since the word had gotten out that the Deathwish Wobbly was stationed in the New Tropical Hotel penthouse, aircraft, undoubtedly hired by rubberneckers, had circled almost daily. Roy's team had decided that the threat of a commando raid on the part of the Grafs men wasn't very likely. The invaders would have been at a considerable disadvantage, now that Roy had augmented his guard to eight well-armed men. They would have been mowed down as they attempted to disembark. Besides, in the Shootout, Roy would have been able to escape, along with Mary Ann and the other noncombatants of the team.
Taking their drinks, they paid little attention to the guard who had gone out on the roof and was shaking his weapon at the aircraft, until Ron blurted, "Jesus Christ! Dick's down!" The three guards in the living room dropped their drinks to the floor, grabbed up their guns, and headed for the roof garden on die double.
Dick was sprawled out on the terrace in agony. He called weakly, "Sniper! On the roof opposite!" His face contorted and he passed out.
Billy and Les ran for him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him back toward the penthouse, bending double to present as small a target as possible. Ron upended a heavy wrought-iron patio table and knelt behind it, steadying his Gyrojet on its edge. He traversed the roof opposite with rapid fire, emptying the clip with one burst. He slapped the side of the gun so that the magazine fell away and fumbled in a pocket of his prole jacket for another.
Dick's two rescuers hauled him into the living room, where the others were standing to each side of the windows out of the line of fire. Billy and Les dragged their fallen companion to a couch and got him onto it. Billy, his face pale, snapped, "He's hit bad! Doctor!"
Mary Ann, her usual prim efficiency slipping, squealed and dashed for the phone on her desk. She banged the activating stud and screamed, "Doctor! Doctor! Immediately in the penthouse. Emergency, emergency!"
Ron, bending double as his companions had, came hurrying back from the rooftop garden. "He's gone, I think," he blurted. Breathing deeply, he stared at Dick, sprawled on the couch. Roy, Forry, Billy, and Les were all hovering above him, trying to get his jacket off, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He said, "It must've all been a put-up. That chopper came over to draw us out. The guy on the roof was waiting. Dick's about the same size as Roy and, of course, we all dress the same."
"Where the hell's that doctor!" Forry grated.
One of the new guards opened the door and stuck his head in. "What the hell's going on?" he said, his eyes bugging when he saw Dick. "There's a doctor out here."
"Let him in, for Christ's sake," Roy said. "Dick's been hit. He's bleeding all over the place."
The doctor came hurrying in. He was in a white jacket and carrying the standard physician's black bag. He was a dignified-looking type, gray of hair, weary of face.
As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him. Even as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, "He's no damned doctor," and made a flying tackle.
The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wrestler swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.
Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a small Gyrojet hideaway gun. "Holy smog," he said, "a shooter."
The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.
Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering his glasses and bringing blood.
"Another doctor," Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was standing, both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. "Have the manager come, accompanying the regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick's still pumping his life out."
She got back on the phone.
Forty said to Billy, in disgust, "How in the hell did you know he wasn't a doctor?"
Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Just instinct, I guess."
They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, "He got here too soon. Besides, he looked too much like a doctor."
Forry closed his eyes in weariness. "Give me strength," he muttered.
Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, "Take him down to the lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer."
Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, "We'd better call the press boys back. This makes a bigger story."
"To hell with publicity," Roy snapped. "Take care of poor Dick first."
A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a side wound. Happily, the slug hadn't been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had gone completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protracted stay in the hospital.
Forry said, "He'll continue on the payroll like everybody else."
Ron looked at him. "You're damn right he will."
Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance that either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corridors or stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.
Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, "What motivates a cloddy like that? Suppose he'd got his gun out and shot Roy? We'd all have been on him like a ton of bricks. He didn't have a chance of making a getaway."
Forry grunted. "When the Graf can't find anybody else to take a chance, there's always the John Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the international fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way or the other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within six months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world."
In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn't dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull at his third drink, though they hadn't had lunch yet.
He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, "Dick might have been killed."
The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.
Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other's obvious thoughts, "Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You're the only one not taking a chance." He hesitated, before adding, "You don't have a chance, Roy, but you're in here pitching. What would you expect us to do? We're just as avid Wobblies as you are."
Roy Cos shrugged that off. "It was a mistake," he said, deep weariness in his voice. "What good's it done? I don't see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies."
"There are some," Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her voice.
Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. "Yes," he said. "Most of 'em are crackpots trying to get in on the act. We don't need crackpots. We need devoted militants."