The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (romance novel chinese novels .TXT) 📗

“His gun,” Kemeny said, after I’d replaced my handkerchief with the one he’d thrown to me. “Easy as you go, Smith. Don’t do anything stupid either. Just pull it out of his holster and then throw it by the barrel into the bushes over there, where you threw yours. Slow and easy. The moment I see you get your fingers anywhere near the trigger, I’ll shoot your dick off.”

His expression told me that’s just what he would do, so I flung it as far away as I could, even though my fingers were slippery with Mark’s blood.

“What now?” I snarled. I’d be damned if I’d show him I was intimidated by him in the slightest. I’d been in far worse situations plenty of times. It was Mark I was concerned for.

“Help him to his feet and follow that path over there on your right.” He waved the gun towards the western edge of the park.

“No need to carry me, Clyde,” Mark said as I went to put my arm under his knees. “Just give me your shoulder. I’ll manage.”

“He doesn’t moan much does he, for someone who’s been shot?” Kemeny said as we exited the scrub and stood in the sand at the edge of the empty-looking street. There were no houses anywhere nearby, the other side of the road was open scrubland with pockets of sand dunes. No wonder he’d been so brazen about leading us out into the open.

“He’s used to pain,” I said. “He’s had worse than a slug in the shoulder.”

“Haven’t we all, Smith. Pity the Krauts didn’t spend more time on you. I heard you never even cried out when they beat the shit out of you.”

“I bet you did at Dr. Bagshaw’s, though,” I said, wondering if the bully trick Luka had mentioned might work.

His self-satisfied smug grin turned to a guttural snarl through bared teeth. He cocked the trigger of his gun, aiming it at Mark once more. It seemed the bully strategy was not going to be an option.

“Wrong thing to say, Smith. How about I shoot your mate in the guts, that might hurt a bit more than a bullet in the shoulder? Then we’d really hear some moaning out of him.”

“Don’t shoot him, Kemeny. What’s the point? It’s me you’ve got the grudge with.”

“My name is Edgar, Smith; not Kemeny.”

“Johnny would be bloody disgusted to see—”

He fired a round into the side of a dark green Bedford panel van parked just near where we’d exited the bushes.

“Shut up, Smith. Don’t mention Johnny’s name unless I ask you to, you hear me? Put your copper mate in the back—it’s open. There’s a pair of handcuffs on the floor on the right-hand side, just inside the door. Put them on him, hands behind his back, nice and tight. Don’t do anything silly, either. I know all about your guerrilla training. Every time you make a false move, I’ll put a bullet somewhere in your friend here. Understood?”

I did as he asked and then stood at the rear of the van. He threw another pair of cuffs onto the ground at my feet.

“Your turn now, Smith. Hands behind your back, and let’s not be stupid, eh? Put one on your wrist and then turn around.”

“You going to cuff me to the rear bumper and make me run behind you when you drive off, or drag me along the ground behind the van?” I wasn’t done with pressing his buttons. I didn’t take well to being immobilised, and I kept reminding myself that he had a gripe with me—he wasn’t going to kill me until he got off his chest whatever it was that made him hate me so much.

“Don’t give me ideas, Smith. Now put the other cuff on your other wrist and then lean forward with your legs apart.”

With one hand he quickly checked the handcuffs were tight. One of them still had a few ratchet teeth not engaged, but he squeezed it shut.

He put a knee in my arse and pushed me against the back of the vehicle. “Rest your chest and face against the floor of the van.”

I did as he said and then heard the silencer being removed. He placed his knee between my legs and pushed my legs apart. “Nice,” he whispered. “Easy opener … just like I like them.”

“Sick bastard—” I started to say and then felt the muzzle of his gun pressed hard into the small of my back.

“I’m a nervous shooter, Smith. I wouldn’t want you to do anything rash. A bullet through the third lumbar vertebra … now let’s see, if you survived the internal injuries, you could say goodbye to your early morning runs around the beach, and you’d never get to have sex with your … what’s his name again? Oh, yes, Harry. Harry Jones.”

“You fucking leave Harry out of this, you slimy piece of—”

The sudden extra push of his pistol against my spine was enough to make me stop.

“Now while you’re bent over like this, let me have a quick feel to see you’re not hiding anything anywhere else. Left leg up.” As awkward as it was with his knee between my legs and my face on the floor of the van, I stretched my leg sideways and put my foot on the rear bumper. He ran his hand over it, checking my sock. I could have done something then, but with the hammer cocked and a round in the chamber, any sudden movement, and with his finger on the trigger, I’d have been paralysed for life … or worse. “Right leg,” he said and then performed the same search. “Spread them, Clyde,” he said, withdrawing his knee from between my legs. It was difficult, face down with my arms restrained, but I shuffled my feet apart.

“Wider!” he ordered.

I didn’t flinch, even when he clasped my balls and fondled my dick, giving it a good squeeze. It was only when he roughly pushed his thumb against my