Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Durwood's steel-colored eyes cast about for trouble. Odd or too-coordinated patterns of movement. People who looked out of place, either by dress or behavior. As Fabienne Rivard's keynote ended, he noted the performance of her security detail—crisp, professional.

Then he heard a chirp of pain.

Moll.

The musclebound thug had a grip on her. Durwood covered twelve feet in two strides. He seized the thug's arm at the elbow.

"Git your hands off."

The two men squared off. Durwood felt a rumble in his loins, a ready anger as he recognized the British mercenary Blake Leathersby.

"Bugger off, Jones." The man flexed his arm, but Durwood's grip held. "Why are you in Davos? It's for corporate leaders, not some livestock show."

Durwood said, "Guess I just showed up."

"You shouldn't have, mate. Where's Rafferty hiding?" Leathersby, his brawny neck swiveling, used a homosexual slur. "Ain't seen him round yet."

"I couldn't say."

"How about that flea-ridden mutt? Sally Mae, yeah? She finally kick the bucket?"

Sue-Ann was back at the hotel, nursing a bad cough.

"She's pure," Durwood said. "Her ma and pa were Blueticks both."

Leathersby laughed—deep, boorish. "The bird here, she's with you?" His eyes traveled Molly's curves. "Decent taste, Jones. Got all her teeth, I see. I thought you backwoods types liked 'em dirty..."

As he prattled on, Durwood thought. Thought about that tickle back in Pittsburgh. That thrum in his mind, watching the foreigner wire up charges in the sugar factory.

Leathersby: Durwood was sure of it now. The job fit his style, methodical and unexpected, the use of multiple nationalities. He must be working for Fabienne Rivard.

How did he recognize Moll?

Maybe Rivard had the Blind Mice under surveillance. Maybe from one of the other jobs Molly had done for the guys. Durwood couldn't recall whether Leathersby had been part of the enemy force in that Florence gig or not.

"Don't know her from Eve," Durwood said. "I see a man threaten a woman, I stop it."

He kept a stiff hold on Leathersby, who tried without success to flinch free. Durwood's wiry farm strength against Leathersby's swollen gym muscles.

"Whatever you came for," Leathersby said, "you'd best steer clear of me."

"I came to restore law. To mend this broken world."

Leathersby scoffed. "Mend? Yeah, take out your sewing needle and find a lot of thread, mate. Law is over."

Durwood squeezed. "I beg to differ."

The Brit, who had Durwood by a good five inches, struggled to get free. "So bloody simple, Jones. Boots, blue jeans, and God. I know every last thought in that pea-sized brain of yours."

"What am I thinking now?"

Men in DAVOS SECURITY windbreakers had noticed the fight. They hustled through the crowd, talking in headsets.

The confrontation was about to end, but Durwood knew it would resume at some later point. Most likely, a more dangerous point.

Leathersby said, "I expect you're wishing you had what hangs in my right trouser holster: a Webley break-top .455 caliber revolver."

Durwood nearly smiled as he let go his nemesis's forearm, security having reached them.

"Man with a US Army M9 semiautomatic has no envy of that. But I'm sure it serves you well on fox hunts."