Painkiller

by Robert J. Crane

  When World War II had rolled around, Phinneus was the first to sign up. He’d had it in his mind to put a bullet in Adolf Hitler’s skull, and while he’d fallen short of that goal, he’d inflicted the fate upon a large number of Nazi soldiers instead. He’d carried an M1 Garand into battle, changing with the times unlike some of his sort, placing bullet after bullet where he intended them. It was a reflex action for him, and the weapons had gotten so good that killing a man had become easier than taking a breath for him.

  He’d let Korea and Vietnam pass him by without signing up for either. They’d feel like slaughter to him in any case; World War II had already felt like that, or near enough as not to matter. Phinneus wasn’t into cold slaughter. He missed the uncertainty, the chance, the hard quarry that made for a difficult kill. There was something elegant about using a musket, something that left the odds just slightly unpredictable, out of his hands, especially at the longer ranges. With a modern rifle, Phinneus could kill a man from miles away even with an unfair wind, no scope required.

  Which was why he’d put his skills to only occasional use, didn’t carry a modern weapon, and did his craft for a rather tidy profit every time he was called to work.

  The man who’d helped win the West had traded in his spurs for building a ranch on his old homestead in Montana, a spread he didn’t care to leave unless the paycheck was lofty enough. But he still needed things, still had bills to pay, and while he certainly had a surplus of money at his disposal, Phinneus had no wish to have to draw down his resources.

  So he kept working, and when he’d gotten the call about this particular contract … well, he’d already been in Chicago anyway, so it was almost like he was fated to take it. Besides, Sienna Nealon? Now that was a challenge akin to making a musket shot at a mile. She was a dangerous quarry, and he could feel the thrill …

  … at least until he’d seen the window shade go up. That had been a disappointment.

  But she’d moved at the last moment, and he’d seen the bullet hit her in the side. It had prompted him to grin, the end delayed, the gauntlet thrown. Because now she knew someone was trying to kill her. He pumped the couch her brother had been sitting on full of lead, signing his signature “P” on it. He hoped she’d notice, wondered if she would come flying all willy-nilly into his sights. That’d be disappointing. That’d end things a little too quickly for his taste.

  Phinneus sat there, peering over his Winchester’s open sights, parked in an office a hundred yards away, his lips pursed nervously. This was the thrill he’d missed in the last few wars, that sense of peril. The most dangerous metahuman in the world was waiting just over there. He’d gone all over the world on hunts, seeking some of the most dangerous prey, and had given up somewhere in the mid-1900s because the thrill was gone. Plugging a hole in an unfaithful spouse from half a mile away with the Winchester for fifty grand hadn’t held any excitement. He’d begun to think his chosen profession was simply … dull. No new worlds left to conquer and all that.

  Well, now the thrill was back. Phinneus’s palms were sweating on the wooden gunstock. He was still carrying the old Winchester, and his Colt Peacemaker was on his hip, hidden under his coat. He licked his lips, wondering if she’d pop her pretty little head up.

  No. She was too smart for that. Phinneus ducked behind the desk and hurriedly put the Winchester back in the shoulder bag he carried. This moment was lost, and if he waited around, she might find a way to turn the tables on him. While that could be potentially fun for a very limited period of time, it wasn’t the way he wanted to engage his quarry.

  No, this moment was lost, and Phinneus knew it. The hunt would go on, though, he thought as he ducked down the staircase, his boots clapping against the tiles as he came down in a fearsome hurry. It wouldn’t be too long before he’d get another shot, though.

  And the next time … he wouldn’t miss.

  15.

  Sienna

  I’m not used to being rescued by the police. Interrogated for a statement, sure. But rescued? Not so much.

  However, in this case, that was exactly what happened.

  Before Reed or I could decide on a course of action, cops came bursting into our room, kicking down the door. Naturally, we presented our badges and suggested that the officers should perhaps crouch, maybe avoid the sniper fire that could be incoming at any time. It didn’t come in, though, and while we were suggesting politely to the first patrolmen through the door to get his ass out of the way, he got a radio call saying that “the scene was clear” a few blocks away in an office building where the assassin had left some bullet casings behind after shooting at me.

  I lowered the shade, lifting myself up just enough to do it, keeping my body arched at a strange angle just in case our shooter decided to take a shot through brick. He didn’t, and I got the shades down. I took a breath in relief, and it came out in a gasp of tension, my muscles relaxing like they’d been forced to hold a hard flex for hours. I sagged into a chair and stayed there for a few minutes until I felt my strength return.

  “That shot could have killed me,” I said to no one in particular. Reed heard me and nodded, then beckoned to me in a motion that indicated we should leave, and now.

  We grabbed our limited amount of luggage, which basically boiled down to a couple plastic bags filled with toiletries, and dragged ourselves out into the hall. We met Detective Maclean just outside the door.

  “Funny running into you two at a crime scene,” he said, not looking amused. Every cop I met was like this, in every city. It’s almost like they resented having to deal with the chaos I provided them.

  “Hey, the crime was against us this time,” I said.

  “We are hell on hotel rooms,” Reed mused aloud.

  “Must be something genetic,” I said.

  “Someone took a shot at you?” Maclean asked. Like he didn’t already know.

  “Yeah,” I said. “A meta, no less.”

  “Was it the guy you clashed with at Oak Street Beach?”

  “Someone else,” I said. “Probably an assassin hired to kill me.”

  His eye twitched. “Who’d want to kill you?” His jaw tightened. “Other than me, for dragging this trouble into my city.”

  “Dude,” I said, “you have like one of the highest murder rates in the US. Don’t lay your baggage on my doorstep.” I waved my little bag of toiletries that I’d gotten at the front desk in front of him. “I travel light.”

  Maclean suppressed a response, and I could tell it was almost killing him to do so. “You were … right about the gambling den, by the way. There’s one right off State Street. Vice has been watching it for a couple weeks, looking for an opportunity to move in.”

  “The good news is, I’ve provided that for you,” I said brightly. “Or I can, if you want, because I need to ask some questions all up in that area and I can call your vice department in after I discover that there’s gambling going on in that establishment.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Maclean said, looking at the maroon hallways of the old-school hotel. “Any idea who was shooting at you?”

  “Whoever it was,” Reed said, “they stitched a ‘P’ into the couch cushion with some seriously sharp shooting. I gotta believe that’s not a common MO.”

  Maclean raised an eyebrow. “You got that right. You gonna have your people run it through a search?”

  “We don’t so much have people anymore,” I said, thinking of J.J. “Our agency support is … limited.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’re pariahs,” Maclean said.

  “I know, right?” I nodded. “We’re just such lovely, jolly people, spreading cheer everywhere we go.”

  “Well, why don’t you go spread some of that cheer at the gambling den?” Maclean said, waving us off.

  “You don’t need a statement?” I asked, watching him curiously.

  “You were in your hotel room and someone shot at you,” Maclean said, shaking his head. “Anything more to it that’s not represented in
the physical evidence?”

  “Not really, no—”

  “Then I don’t need the details of what you had for lunch or what you were thinking about when a bullet came winging in through the window, no,” Maclean said. “Go. Leave me in peace.”

  “Well, okay, then,” I said, cramming my little plastic bag of toiletries into my pocket and adjusting the bloody rip where the bullet had passed through my blouse. I pulled on the coat I’d had hanging over my other arm, ignoring the ruin I was doing to it by getting it bloody. “I guess we’re off to cause more chaos.” I watched Maclean cringe. “Don’t sweat it. This time it’ll be vice’s problem!”

  “I don’t think that was very reassuring for him,” Reed said as we headed for the elevators.

  “If you think it’s bad for him,” I said as the elevator dinged and I stepped inside, “wait until you see how it turns out for whoever gives me so much as a hint of lip at this gambling hall.” My face tightened in resolve as Reed hurried in after me and the doors started to close. “Because now … I am in a bad mood.”

  Reed swallowed audibly. “Heaven help us all.”

  16.

  The doorman at the gambling den went tumbling through air without regard for gravity until he came smashing down on a craps table. It was snake eyes for him, though, and his rolled back in his head like a reverse slot machine display.

  I stepped into the long hall and took a look around. It was clearly not opening time yet, which worked for me. The building was roughly the size of a six-stall garage, tight and compact, ringed with slot machines and complete with tables for other games in the middle of the floor. A few closed doors broke the bright, jangling slot machine monotony that edged the room, and gave me hope that other recalcitrant assholes like the man at the door would be within, like defiant piñatas, waiting for me to work out my frustrations on them until they spilled their secrets like candy.

  A quick glance revealed no sign of security cameras. Naturally. It’s not like you want to have obvious surveillance of your illegal gambling operation. Probably tends to make the customers skittish, and it’d be a bonanza for the cops if they raided the place.

  “What’s going on out here?” A guy at least a foot and a half taller than me stepped out of the nearest doorway sideways. He came out of the door sideways because he couldn’t have fit those muscles through otherwise. He looked like a proper thug, a mook of the highest order.

  “Yay,” I said, “we have another player.”

  He took in the guy on the craps table in one good look, and with a flick of his wrist he deployed a spring-loaded baton. Double yay. I’d been wanting one of those for a while. “You don’t belong here,” he said.

  “I know, I’m way too classy for this joint,” I said, strolling in, eyeing the guy whose ass I had already kicked, passed out on the table as I went past. “Still … I don’t see anyone here big enough to throw me out.”

  He looked at me with jaded eyes. “I know who you are.”

  “Oh, good,” I said, and my smile evaporated. “Let me tell you a few things you don’t know. One, I’m not in a happy place, mentally, right now. Two, you’re going to answer my questions—”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, clutching the baton in front of him like it could protect him from me or something.

  “Three, I don’t like it when people interrupt me, because it’s really rude,” I went on. “And four … I’m thirsty.”

  “There’s a bar just down the street,” he said.

  “There’s a bar in the corner,” I said, nodding in the direction of a big wooden bar. “A gentleman would offer me a drink.”

  “I’m not a gentleman,” he said, “and you’re leaving.”

  “I’m going to enjoy beating the truth out of you,” I said, pushing my lips together in a feral smile as I raised my fist and cracked my knuckles. “It’s going to be the highlight of my day.”

  He sauntered out from the doorway, baton in hand. “I don’t think so.”

  “Reed, get me a drink, will you?” I asked. I put on a ham of an accent. “I need to teach this degenerate some manners. Momma always said that hanging out in places like this produced some bad habits, but … I just didn’t believe her …”

  The thug smiled. “You think tough talk is going to scare me?”

  “No,” I said, smiling coyly, maybe a little psychotically, “but watching your blood drip out as I break lots and lots of your bones probably will. And if that doesn’t work, scattering your body parts all over the city will probably do it. And if that fails … well, I’ll come up with something even more creative.”

  “Holy shit,” Reed muttered, making his way behind the bar. He was watching in a distracted sort of way, like he didn’t want to see what happened next.

  “Tough talk,” Thuggy said, still smiling. “Let’s see what kind of action you can take to back it up, cop.”

  I swept in at him as he raised a fist, baton in hand, and I punched him, ramming my knuckles right into his. It made a fearsome cracking noise that echoed through the makeshift casino. It took a second for the force of the impact to run through Thuggy’s nerves, and then he flinched, dropping the baton. I drew back a pace to see how he reacted.

  He pulled his hand back, a pained look on his face as he cringed. “Ungh!” He clutched at his wrist.

  “Yeah, that’s not going to fix the problem,” I said. “Wanna talk now?”

  “I ain’t saying shit to you,” he said, still holding his hand.

  “Ooookay,” I said and wound up again, bringing my hand behind me very theatrically.

  He didn’t even cringe away, though he had to know something horrible was coming. I shrugged and relaxed, instead leaning forward slowly to flick his ear. He started to relax until my fingertip snapped against his lobe and the damned thing ripped off and went flying across the room like Tyson had just bit it off.

  “Augh!” Thuggy shouted as he grabbed for his damaged ear with both hands.

  “One of your regulars was murdered just down the road last night,” I said as he bent double, blood dripping from between his fingers. “His name was Carlton Jacobs. Dressed pretty snappy, tended to win pretty big.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that,” Thuggy said, his face creased with pain. “I don’t know nothing about nothing!”

  “I believe you when it comes to grammar,” I said, “but I’m finding myself more skeptical when it comes to Dr. Jacobs.” I raised my hand again, positioning my fingers for another good flick. “Come on. I’m hurting you almost as little as I can, here. Work with me.”

  He scowled at me through gritted teeth and suggested I do something to myself that was very impolite, so I kicked him in the knee and watched him fall down. I probably broke something, maybe the patella, maybe the shin, I wasn’t really sure and I didn’t care. “If only I could,” I said, almost commiserating to him. “Unfortunately, someone destroyed my hotel room, and since I’m not a fan of exposing myself in public, I guess I’m just going to have to keep effing you up instead.”

  Thuggy grunted. I’d clearly added to his list of woes. “I’m not saying … anything.” At least his grammar was improving. I felt like that was my contribution to society, and you’re very welcome.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, and kicked him in the gut. It was more of a push than anything, sent him flying up on the craps table, where he landed next to his already unconscious buddy. “Hey Reed? How’s that drink coming?”

  Reed had poured himself something dark and straight up. “It’s not. You never told me what you wanted.”

  “Pineapple juice and coconut rum. Make it a tall glass, one third rum, two thirds juice. I need something sweet, but still a little boozy.”

  My brother shook his head in clear disapproval, but he kept it to himself, turning to scour the bar in order to fulfill my request.

  “Now …” I said, strolling over to the craps table, “… where were we?”

  Thuggy had his back to me, rolled over facing the do
or we’d come in through. “I wasn’t telling you nothing,” he said, back to bad English and sounding strained. With that, he rolled over, a Glock in his hand, and pointed it right at my face. His finger was on the trigger.

  17.

  I sighed as I ripped the Glock out of Thuggy’s hand, taking his index finger up to the first knuckle with it. He was dazed, woozy, like someone had kicked him around pretty good, and thus using metahuman speed to dodge around him and twist the gun out of his grasp with a standard disarming move was like taking candy from a baby. A drunken baby.

  “Why do I have a feeling you’re the sort of guy who’s barred by law from possessing a firearm?” I asked, instantly releasing the magazine and pulling the slide back to eject the round in the chamber. “I’m guessing you’ve got priors. Lots and lots of priors.”

  “Screw you,” he said, and it was the politest thing he’d said to me in the last few minutes, so I decided to work with it. By snapping him lightly in the mouth. His head hit the table, and when he opened his lips, his front four teeth were missing.

  I took it easy on him, I swear.

  “Sienna,” Reed said, hiding his face behind a hand, “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten this, but human beings don’t heal the way we do.”

  “You may not realize this,” I tossed back at him, “but when people pull a gun on me, I give oh-so-much-less than a damn how hurt they get. Now, if you’ll excuse me … I’m going to do some leg work here.” I straightened up, slipping out of my jacket and tossing it onto a nearby roulette wheel. “By which I mean I’m going to break his legs.” I leaned down to look Thuggy in the eyes. “I bet you’re familiar with that kind of work, aren’t you?”