Hostage for A Hood
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Every minute she had was borrowed, and every second ticked off the time for murder.
Joyce was driving along the deserted avenue. Just ahead on a side street, Cribbins checked the second hand of his watch for the last time. He swung the heavy Cadillac around the corner. He had a rendezvous with an armored car and a quarter of a million dollars; he had a tommy gun to make sure it all went off smoothly. Everything was timed, everything was planned down to the most insignificant detail—except for Joyce Sherwood and her eight-year-old Chevy, which crashed deep into the side, of Cribbins' stolen car. That's how they met—the housewife and the hoods. And terror took over!
* * * *
"You and I are going to have a talk," Santino said. He walked across the room and unfolded a camp chair. Opening it, he pulled it over next to the bed on which Joyce lay handcuffed to the bedpost.
Instinctively, with her free hand, she pulled the blanket up in an effort to cover herself. "I don't know anything," she said.
Santino laughed and it wasn't a pleasant laugh. Leaning over suddenly, he took one end of the blanket and jerked it off the bed.
"You got a pretty face," he said. "Pretty face and a nice body. I can spoil them for you. I can turn that face into something that nobody will ever want to look at again. I can do things to that body of yours ... "