Chapter 12

The dirt track, already barely wide enough for a rabbit, turned to mud in the last stretch and in his wingtips Hogan was sliding all over the place. If it were any other time, Vergil would have been laughing at the slick gangster trying to stay on his feet, but here and now every time he heard the slapping of Hogan’s feet on the mud he flinched and waited for the storm of bullets to come flying. The closer they got the heap of rotten wood, the less it looked likely to have anyone inside. Up against the backside of the hut, hidden amidst the tangle of pussy-willows, Vergil paused. From here he would have been able to feel the heat of a stove, no matter how well the smugglers had muffled the glow. Maybe Hoganwas right. Or maybe this whole thing was a trap and Vergil had been a fool all along. He stared at Hogan in the dark, trying to pick out the details of his features in the mass of black. Even when he was staring right at him in the daylight he couldn’t be certain.