Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two by Michael Panush Read Free Book Online Page A

big old expensive vault door, and plenty of guards. But a couple explosions in the right places and the whole thing goes tumbling down.” He grinned at Betty. Wooster was enjoying himself. “Ya’ll stand back now.”
    Betty took a few halting steps back. Roscoe joined her as Wooster unspooled a length of cord connected to the dynamite. He moved to join his friends at the end of the hall and snapped open the detonator.
    Roscoe checked his watch. “It’s been ten minutes. Angel should be done. Blow it now.”
    “You don’t want to wait longer?” Wooster asked. “What if he got delayed or something?”
    “The longer we wait, the greater the chance someone will discover one of the guards.” Roscoe pointed to the door. “Blow it now.”
    “Okay.” Wooster glanced at Betty. “Care to do the honors, little lady?”
    “Why not?” Betty leaned down and pressed the detonator.
    The sticks of dynamite blasted to life. Wooster always kept a little dynamite on him and he had primed them carefully the night before, after Roscoe did his best to describe the vault door to him. The explosions rippled across the surface, shattering a length of metal at one point, dislodging a cog in another, and blasting a chunk of metal in the center. The vault door creaked and groaned. Wooster stood and carefully approached it. No one said a word. They were waiting for the alarm to go off. They waited and waited. Roscoe’s heart beat again, but no alarm sang out. Angel must have done his job. Betty let out a slight sigh of relief. Wooster walked to the door and faced to his friends. Betty pulled her pistol, and Roscoe drew his sawed-off.
    Wooster grabbed the door and pushed it open. It swung wide on its hinges, making a slight creaking noise as it revealed the counting room. Wooster swept the room with his Thompson and Roscoe and Betty aimed their guns. About half-a-dozen guys in shirtsleeves sat at felt tables, counting money, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. All of them looked up in silent amazement. Angel was right. These guys weren’t expecting them. Roscoe could have been Santa Claus waltzing in―a creature out of a children’s story showing up in their normal place of business.
    Roscoe kept the sawed-off pointed at his target and walked inside. At the far end, sat the wooden door leading to the living quarters. “Stay where you are. Don’t move at all. Stay completely still and I promise you won’t be hurt.”
    The counters stayed still. They were glorified accountants; they weren’t hired for their muscle. They didn’t know what to do and so they stayed still, but their boss stood. He had a protruding gut and thinning hair, a cigar wedged between his fingers. He wore his vest unbuttoned, his tie a ragged flag drooping over his chest. He stepped in front of Roscoe. “You know who you’re stealing from? Do you know? You must know who owns this joint. It’s Frankie Fink, pal. You won’t make it out of the state. You won’t make it out of town. Take all the dough you want. You won’t get a chance to spend it.”
    “We’re not here for dough,” Roscoe said.
    “Doesn’t matter. This is the Fink’s casino, and you’re knocking it over.” This guy, maybe a pit boss doubling as the manager in the counting room, wouldn’t back down. He stepped closer to Roscoe, ignoring the sawed-off aimed at his chest. “The Fink’s got plenty of friends. He’s got armies at his command. He’ll get you and you’ll get it slow. You got me, pal? You’ll get it nice and slow.” His finger jabbed out, aiming for Roscoe. “Trust me, pal. You’re already dead.”
    “Got that right.” Roscoe slugged the guy, ramming a fist into his gut and tossing him back. He crashed into one of the tables. Money flew everywhere, thick clumps of green dollars wafting through the still, smoky air. Roscoe pointed to Wooster. “He’ll watch you while we get what we came for. He’s not patient and he’s part wolf. Don’t give him an