The Hit and The Marksman - Brian Garfield - ebook

The Hit and The Marksman ebook

Brian Garfield

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Two short novels from a master of hard-boiled storytelling. Simon Crane is an ex-cop with a bad leg, a small pension, and a former lover, Joanne, who works for Sal Aiello, undisputed crime boss of a dusty southwestern city. When Aiello and his millions disappear, the city's underworld whips into a frenzy that could get Joanne killed. To save her life, Crane must find the dead mobster's cash before anyone else does. Somebody put a hit out on Aiello, and if Crane can't find out who, he will be taking the bullet himself. In this special edition ebook, The Hit is paired with The Marksman, a tense novella about a combat veteran caught up in criminal dealings far more violent than anything he saw in the Middle East. Garfield's prose is spare and his storytelling is electric from page one. Both novellas overflow with grim, relentless action.

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Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

By Way of Introduction …

A Beginning …

A Middle …

And an End …

Looking for more suspense?

Cover

Begin Reading

About the Book

Two short novels from a master of hard-boiled storytelling.

Simon Crane is an ex-cop with a bad leg, a small pension, and a former lover, Joanne, who works for Sal Aiello, undisputed crime boss of a dusty southwestern city. When Aiello and his millions disappear, the city’s underworld whips into a frenzy that could get Joanne killed. To save her life, Crane must find the dead mobster’s cash before anyone else does. Somebody put a hit out on Aiello, and if Crane can’t find out who, he will be taking the bullet himself.

In this special edition ebook, The Hit is paired with The Marksman, a tense novella about a combat veteran caught up in criminal dealings far more violent than anything he saw in the Middle East. Garfield’s prose is spare and his storytelling is electric from page one. Both novellas overflow with grim, relentless action.

About the Author

The author of more than seventy books, Brian Garfield (b. 1939) is one of the country’s most prolific writes of thrillers, westerns and other genre fiction. Raised in Arizona, Garfield found success at an early age, publishing his first novel when he was only eighteen. After time in the Army, a few years touring with a jazz band, and a Master’s Degree from the University of Arizona, he settled into writing full time.

The Hit and the Marksman

Brian Garfield

 

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

 

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

 

Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

 

For the original edition:

Copyright © 2012 by The Mysterious Press, LLC, 58 Warren Street, New York, NY. U.S.A.

 

The Hit, Copyright © 1970 by Brian Garfield.

 

The Marksman, Copyright © 2000 by Brian Garfield.

 

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover adaptation: Christin Wilhelm, www.grafic4u.de

Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

 

E-book production: Jouve Germany GmbH & Co. KG

 

ISBN 978-3-95859-109-7

 

www.bastei-entertainment.com

 

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this e-book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

The noon sun beat down on the road, on me, on the dry desert foothills. The road was narrow blacktop, snaking down by switchbacks toward the plain and the city. In the Jeep I was doing only twenty-five but the wind had a searing, abrasive edge against my face.

I was half stunned with fear: I had just left a meeting at which sentence had been passed on me. You’re not wearing our silks, Crane. Nobody cares what happens to you and the woman. Forty-eight hours to deliver or die.

My numb brain was making images of Joanne when I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the chrome teeth of a big station wagon bearing down on me from behind. I had been too preoccupied with my own impending execution to notice it before; no telling how long it had been there. He was riding my tail with reckless arrogance; the dusty grille of the car seemed ready to take a bite out of the Jeep. He was a tailgating imbecile, driving with suicidal aggressiveness, not more than ten feet behind my bumper. All the rage and frustration of the past bouts climaxed in my gut; out of sheer malice, I hit the brakes—hard.

The station wagon swerved; I heard the indignant panic-stricken yelp of horn and then the big car wobbled past, just clearing me, with an arch swish of skidding rubber.

Instead of thundering away, the station wagon pulled to the curb. His brake lights dashed angry red and the wagon’s tail went up in the air. It stopped short, the door swung open, and the driver got out.

The road was too narrow to get by him. I pitched to a stop. Suddenly I wanted this stupid, meaningless fight with a total stranger; I felt like a fight, I wanted to kill the son of a bitch.

He was a good-sized man about my age, fair hair and a round boyish face. He looked scared: he wore the expression of a man who was about to burst into tears.

I climbed down from the Jeep. That was when I saw the .32 automatic in his fist, hanging at arm’s length. I stopped, bolt still.

He said, “You’re Simon Crane.”

It wasn’t till then that I recognized him. He might as well have said, You’re the bastard that’s been banging my wife.

He lifted the gun. I had an impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter.

I said, “Okay, Mike.”

Mike Farrell’s mouth worked; his eyes weren’t tracking well. He was as close to the thin borderline of madness as I was. He stood there, jaw working, no sound coming out.

I said, “You must have been staked out back there. This couldn’t be coincidence—you followed me down from up there.”

“Sure.” He got it out between his teeth.

“What for? To shoot me?”

He shook his head. “The gun’s just insurance.” He talked without moving his lips. Ex-cons are easy to spot. They talk in monotones; their body movements are slow and careful, their gestures muffled, expressions immobile, eye movements restricted. Mike had all the earmarks. His face, rigidly composed now, was betrayed by the restless, terrified eyes.

I said, “Insurance for what?”

“Turn around and lean on your hands.”

I glanced at his gun and obeyed, flattening my palms against the hot hood of the Jeep; I had frisked enough of them myself to know how it was done. I was wearing Levi’s and a yellow shirt; there weren’t many places I could conceal a gun. He went over me nervously and stepped back when he was satisfied I wasn’t armed. It was the second time today I’d been frisked.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!