“I don’t know, I don’t, you gotta believe me..!”
The small-framed Mr. Dicks was curled into an insignificant ball on the floor, his head already bearing the marks of interrogation by Albano’s men.
Albano spat and motioned.
Mr. Dicks groaned as another boot dug into his ribs.
Mrs. Dicks frantically climbed the stairs, the old pump Remington, ready and primed, in her bony hands.
The door burst open and Mrs. Dicks, all 134 pounds of her, stepped in, pointing the shotgun at Albano’s billowing gut.
“One more step and yer bastards fly into the next world minced like hamburgers,” Mrs. Dicks barked.
“Therese!..” Mr. Dicks whimpered.
Albano, his old killer instincts alive for a split second, drew his gun just as his two pistoleros were reaching for theirs.
“Aye, devil’s ass rodent bastards,” Mrs. Dicks yelled as she fired her first shot and pumped flawlessly to bring more bloody sorrow upon both made man and soldiers.
“This was a job by a pro,” Captain Nevins said standing above the bodies of Albano and his boys.