Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern Page B

end nearest him was up off the ground and he stood beside it, his left hand resting lazily on it. He said nothing, waiting. After what seemed to him like a long minute, he saw one of the faces turning toward him. The side of that face toward the playground light was illuminated with almost a ghostly whiteness, the other side in deep shadow.
    â€œWhat you want?”
    â€œPeace and quiet,” Frost groaned, lighting a cigarette in the blue-yellow flame of his Zippo—“so go home and grab some sleep, knock off some Zs.”
    â€œGo bite my—”
    Frost decided, so much for trying to establish rapport with them!
    More of the kids were turning around, facing him, starting to walk toward him.
    The one who’d talked a moment earlier shouted across the gravel playyard, “What are you, some kind of martial arts expert? You gonna beat us all into the ground, maybe?”
    â€œJust a man who’s had a hard day and wants some sleep—you guys rumble and—”
    â€œRumble? What—you get that outa some friggin’ movie?”
    Frost finished his sentence. “You guys fight, the cops’ll come, there’ll be a lot of noise, I’ll miss my beauty sleep.”
    â€œHa—looks like you missed it all your life, Gringo!” someone shouted.
    Frost smiled, hoping his face was visible in the light. “I take it some of you are Mexican-Americans and some of you aren’t?”
    â€œSo!” It was still another voice.
    â€œWell, racial and ethnic differences shouldn’t become the focal point of hostility—no shit!” Frost dragged heavily on the Camel, his right hand already under his coat, the bruised and aching fingers wrapped tight around the butt of the High Power—cocked and locked.
    â€œHey, you some kinda clown, some weird social worker or somethin’?”
    â€œI told you,” Frost insisted, “I’m a man who needs his rest. Now—you guys gonna get out of here or are you going to cause trouble?”
    Finally—Frost breathed a sigh of relief—one of the ones who’d been talking was walking toward him. It was about time, Frost thought. The kid stopped—right in front of Frost and the seesaw. He was about six feet, lean but well-built-looking—the blond hair clued Frost immediately that this was likely not one of the Latinos. “We’re gonna cause trouble, mother—”
    Frost smashed the near end of the seesaw down hard with his left hand. His right hand ripped the 9-mm from the Alessi shoulder rig; the thumb of his right hand whipped off the safety. The far end of the seesaw shot up, just missing the biker. Frost’s left foot lashed out in a savage kick as Frost half-wheeled away, his foot catching the boy in the solar plexus. The loud rush of air was half like a shout, half a curse.
    Frost’s right fist with the gun in it shot forward, while his left hand grabbed the greasy blond hair, snapping the head back; the muzzle of the Browning High Power stopped just under the blond boy’s nose.
    The dozen and a half bikers that had started toward Frost in a rush suddenly stopped—it was the nice thing about a slightly shiny gun, Frost thought. It got attention. “Now,” Frost half-shouted, “I’m not saying one more word after this—you guys pile on your bikes and hike outa here—now! Otherwise, blondie gets this right up the old coke snorter, capiche?”
    No one spoke; none of the kids in the two rival gangs moved. Then the blond boy Frost held the gun on stammered, “Do what he says—this sucker’s crazy!”
    Frost laughed, low, near the blond boy’s ear so only he could hear it.
    â€œCome on—get out!” The blond boy’s voice was cracking. “Please!”
    Somehow—perhaps because the word was so little used among them, Frost surmised—the word “please” seemed to have some sort of magical effect.