Freedman picked off the guard then scrambled forward to his next bit of cover. For a piece of cake this was turning out to be devilishly difficult. He'd penetrated the outer perimeter without sounding any alarms because, as crazy as he was, Freedman was also very cautious. It was the only way you stayed alive in this business. He check his ammunition, then peeked around the corner. Oh great, a machine-gun emplacement.
Freedman rather prudently decided he'd have to give up trying to knock off Fort Knox all by himself. Damned government troops all over the place anyway. He'd have to come back with reinforcements.
A quick retreat, a call on the walkie-talkie, and soon Sandy and Baxter were hovering over him like angels of mercy in a helicopter. While Sandy, already nine months gone, passed Freedman a fresh gin-and-tonic, Baxter piloted the craft up, up and away.
"How'd it go, Boss?" he asked.
The drink already warming his insides, Freedman settled back and thought about his reply.
"Well, we're going to need help.""What kind of help, Boss?"
"The best kind of help. You know what that means."
"Oh no, Freedman, not him!" Sandy interjected from around her knitting. "He gives me the creeps."
"I know, Sandy. I'm sorry but that's the way it has to be." He patted Sandy's knee sympathetically. "Okay, Baxter, you know where we're going."
"Righto, Boss!" Baxter said, with considerable enthusiasm. Frankly, he was looking forward to this. "It's off to Black Fist's we go!"