Operation Whiplash Read Online Free

Robin.
    She had a half-finished beer in front of her. “Drink up,” I ordered. “The highway awaits.”
    “I hoped we’d be staying here overnight,” she complained. “Didn’t you like the sample I gave you?”
    “Almost thou persuadeth me, Robin. Almost.”
    I loaded her into the car. Her attitude was sullen. “Hazel never mentioned what you did for a living,” she said after a while.
    “I’m a pimp,” I replied. “We’re breaking you in for the South American trade.”
    “You couldn’t break in a baby to a pacifier,” she informed me loftily, but she didn’t ask any more questions.
    I drove to Tallahassee, and I really pushed it. It was almost full dark when we arrived. Robin looked at me inquiringly when I parked in front of the Greyhound terminal. “You’re finishing the trip on the bus,” I informed her. If I had to make a quick move in Hudson, I didn’t want to be burdened with a female.
    She started to argue, then changed her mind. “You’ll come to see me in Hudson, won’t you? At the Lazy Susan?”
    “Sure, Velvet-Ass. Since you’re under Hazel’s sponsorship, I can’t wait to get both your asses in the same bed.”
    “I wonder about you,” she said slowly. “I really do.”
    “I just talk a good game, Robin,” I said.
    “You haven’t forgotten it’s a rental car?”
    “I’ll get the papers from you in Hudson.”
    I put her on the bus with a ticket and her bag. Then I took the Chevy to the Tallahassee rental agency and turned it in. I told the agency I’d lost the papers. I had them call Little Rock and get the charges. I paid up, took my briefcase, and hailed a cab.
    I had the cabbie take me to the largest used-car lot in town. In twenty minutes I was the owner of a two-year-old Ford for which I paid cash. The dealer’s boy put on the temporary ten-day tags.
    An hour after Robin’s departure I aimed the Ford toward Hudson.
    Near midnight I pulled into a trucker’s terminal. I had a sandwich, then took my briefcase into the men’s room. I went into a cubicle and changed wigs and makeup. I took my Bianchi belt-holster from the briefcase and exchanged it for the belt I had on. I settled the Smith & Wesson in it after loading a clip. Its solid, familiar weight felt comforting.
    I tested the trigger-pull of the derringer before carefully inserting two of the dozen cartridges acquired from Rudy Hernandez. Fortunately the trigger-pull wasn’t unduly sensitive. I made a temporary shin holster from two heavy elastic bands I bummed from the restaurant’s cashier. I put the derringer under the lower one, pulled my long sock up, covering the weapon, then fastened the sock under the upper elastic. I’d arrange something more permanent later. Right then I got back out on the highway.
    Beyond Perry there was little traffic. I reached Hudson at two A.M . The last time I’d driven past its single traffic light it had been at 90 m.p.h. with a posse of police cruisers after me. I knew where my first stop was going to be. I was going to break into Nate Pepperman’s office. There might be a message from Hazel.
    Nate’s office was upstairs over the bank. I parked a block away and walked back. The outside door at the foot of the stairs was ajar a fraction of an inch. I examined it for a full minute and the silent street for another before I widened the aperture cautiously. That door shouldn’t have been open.
    I went up the stairway, staying close to the wall to avoid squeaky stair treads. The upper hallway was dimly illuminated by a streetlight shining through a window. The door to Nate’s office was wide open. I think I knew what I was going to see before I saw it.
    Even in the poor light I could see Nate Pepperman sitting at his desk, slumped to one side.
    The top of the desk was covered with blood.
    Pepperman’s throat had been cut viciously.
    Hazel’s financial consultant was dead, and it was plain that he had been for some time.

two
    I moved inside the office, careful where I