By Brian Coffey
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Additional info for Blood Risk
Neither of them spoke again until he braked, slowed and drove off into a roadside picnic area fifteen minutes later. "On foot from here," Shirillo said. He looked at his watch. " He picked up two pairs of field glasses from the back seat, handed one to Tucker and got out of the car. Twenty minutes later, having tramped a considerable distance through a pine woods, moving silently most of the time, they reached the vantage point Shirillo had chosen, in the trees to the side of the private road, halfway down the mile-long straightaway that fed into Baglio's driveway.
They'll sew him back together from the wreck, ask him a few questions, and break every bone in his body, one at a time, until he spills. " Tucker picked up the glasses again, trained them on the front doors which opened on the promenade, followed two men as they came out of the house and walked toward the white Thunderbird. One was in a business suit and carried a black satchel, obviously the physician. The other man was tall, dark and distinguished, with full sideburns and a mane of gray-white hair.
In five minutes the site would be swarming with Baglio's gunmen. Still, this was the quickest, simplest way to let those inside the limousine know that this was serious business, rough business, and that they were hopelessly outgunned. When the echo died, Tucker was at the driver's window, the stubby shotgun leveled at the old man's neck. A blast from the first barrel alone would shatter the window and fragment the chauffeur's skull before he could complete any dive for the floorboards. The old bastard knew it; he sat where he was, motionless.