The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

  “Then what is it?” I asked.

  “It’s an alert lamp. Used to belong to a guy named Robert de Sable, so I call it the Templar’s Lamp. It’ll light up and fill the room with incense if something otherworldly has crossed the threshold. Can’t promise it’ll wake you up from a deep sleep, but it’s better than nothing.”

  He put it back in the chest and closed it.

  “But we’ve got training to do, first. So, take the Joey Rifle and follow me. We’re going to the range.”

  He picked up a few more rifles, putting each in a sportsman’s case, and set them in front of the bunker. I watched Amalfi pick them up one by one, noting that the ladder didn’t seem to bother her, but she never crossed the circle of salt.

  As he passed off the last one, he motioned for me to follow him out. I did, and he closed the heavy bunker door, arming the alarm as we left.

  “It’s a bitch to get these out of the vault,” he said, grunting a bit as we started climbing the ladder. “But it works both ways. Any thieves who find themselves down here are gonna be stuck indefinitely. Plus, the ladder helps.” He tapped it, and a metallic clink echoed up and down the passage. “Craftsmanship matters.”

  We exited the maintenance shack and walked across to the gun range. Amalfi was already there, dressed in khakis and a polo that showed off her impressive physique. A pair of mirrored aviation glasses and a ball cap with a logo I didn’t recognize completed her look. Much like her mistress, she was all corded muscle, though she was much shorter. She handed us noise-cancelling headphones and talked us through a well-rehearsed safety briefing.

  I walked up to the first lane and put the VHS down. I found six magazines, the German transparent kind, already there, loaded up with 5.56mm rounds.

  I looked over and saw Jerry arranging a pair of rifles and several pistols on his table.

  “You wanna see something cool?” he asked.

  I nodded, meekly, and put my rifle down.

  Jerry stepped up and stretched. I caught a glimpse of a rune on his left hand. He smiled at me.

  “Amalfi, raise five targets at 10 meters, another five at 20, one at 30, and one at 50.”

  “Got it!” Amalfi said, and soon targets were moving gently on their assigned tracks. They were no larger than dinner plates, and they were color coded.

  “Alright,” he said. “I used to do this with a timer, but I’ve found time is no longer a concern.”

  As soon as he finished speaking, there was a blue flash and what sounded like 15 shots. Every target was down, and four magazines from four different weapons lay at Jerry’s feet. Each of the guns on the table in front of him was in a different position than just a split second ago. He was holding a .38 J-Frame and patiently reloading it.

  “That’s the standard on this range, brother,” he said, more than a hint of pride in his voice. “Think you’re up to it?”

  “Fuck no,” I blurted out. “Forrest didn’t train me that well.”

  “That ain’t Forrest’s work,” Jerry said, proudly. “Nor Nelson’s, nor any other damned soul the Patron can drag up to teach rookies how to shoot. That’s 25 years of refining my mark. I got a left-hand icon, a speed rune. Yours, if I saw it correctly at dinner, is a right-hand icon, an accuracy rune. I had to practice my accuracy, but the speed came naturally. You don’t have my reflexes, but you’ll hit your targets, almost by accident. For the rest of the day, we’re gonna try to get your reflexes to where they need to be. I can’t work miracles in a single day, but I can teach you a few techniques you can practice at home.”

  We spent hours in the sun, shooting, pausing to clean weapons, then shooting again. I put rounds through pistols, through rifles, and though my VHS, which Jerry kept insisting was a “Joey Rifle.” I became more comfortable with the rifle and came to appreciate it. Unlike my handgun, it wasn’t matched to my rune; I had to shoot it the old-fashioned way. I considered getting a reflex sight. I mentioned it, and Jerry brought a selection for me to try. I ended up picking a simple red dot scope; no reason to overcomplicate things.

  Jerry was eager to show me everything. I developed an appreciation for how much the man knew about guns and about shooting over an afternoon of new techniques, drills, and practice. We stayed at it until the sun got low. We were both cleaning weapons when Amalfi returned.

  “Hey boss,” Amalfi said. “Time for dinner. Mistress won’t be happy if you’re not there.”

  “True,” Jerry said, grinning through the thin layer of sweat that coated his face. “And we’ve got to shower.”

  Dinner was much more subdued than the first night. We had leftover brisket, served cheerfully by Amalfi and one of the other servants. The other girls had already eaten and were off doing chores around the ranch. Only Zaira, Mimi, Jerry, and I remained, so we ate inside. The décor in Vinter’s dining room matched the cowboy vibe he cultivated elsewhere around the house, and the leftover brisket was almost as tasty as it was fresh off the grill.

  “Why do you still live at home?” I asked Zaira.

  “I work here,” she said, proudly. “I help out around the stables, work as security, and fight in the local MMA league Dad bought.”

  “It’s one of my last, great vices,” Jerry said, wistfully. “Get rich enough, and a lot of vice loses its impact. For me, though, there’s something about hand-to-hand combat I’ll always love. It brings out the best in people. And Zaira’s a natural. Got her talents from her mother. If she took after me, she’d be a gunman, not a fist-fighter.”

  That explained why she carried herself with a predatory gait her siblings lacked.

  “Not just fists,” she said, sizing me up. “All sorts of weapons. There’s talk of starting up a medieval combat league. I want to bring Daddy’s Zweihander to that one.”

  “Not going to happen,” said Mimi. “And it’s my Zweihander.”

  Zaira looked a bit sour.

  “You like a good fight, Nick?” she asked, turning to me.

  I shrugged. “I’ve been known to drop money on a good pay-per-view event, but I’m not a brawler.”

  “Really?” she said. “You’ve got the physique for it.”

  I shrugged again.

  “You should take up shooting,” Vinter said, cutting off his daughter’s attempt to flirt and liberating me from explaining how bad I was at hand-to-hand.

  “Nah,” said Zaira. “I like doing what I do. And there’s no money in competitive shooting.”

  Vinter shot her a look of disapproval that suggested there was plenty of money in shooting, she just didn’t want any of it. Before he could start a paternal diatribe, I did my best to take control of the conversation.

  “You’re the oldest?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Technically,” Zaira said. “My sisters and I are the same age. Dad tells people we’re sextuplets, which I guess is true. Demons have children in litters.”

  I nodded awkwardly, unsure of what to think of the statement. I didn’t want to imagine the demon reproductive process, ever.

  “Got you a flight out tomorrow morning,” Jerry said, relieving me of the obligation to say something. “Amalfi will drive you. Make sure you take all your gifts from here, though I suspect you won’t have many places to wear those bowling shirts I got you.”

  “Yeah, my league team would shank me,” I joked.

  “I’m serious, brother,” said Jerry. “We ain’t watched here. But you know the rules of the game. There are eyes everywhere, informants, both willing and unwilling. That former Patron of ours almost certainly knows you and I met. He’s going to be suspicious. When we get closer to making our move, I’ll let you know. Until then…train. I’ve given you the tools and the knowledge, so train every damn day.”

  He let his silverware clatter on his plate, empty except for a few barbeque sauce stains, and wiped his face with his napkin.

  “I haven’t agreed to this,” I reminded Jerry.

  “Yes, you have,” he insisted, a slight edge creeping into
his voice. “You accepted my gifts. You accepted my hospitality. The way the kind of folks we’re up against think, you’re already my kith and kin. You can pretend this was a big ol’ coincidence, and you and I don’t know each other, but the threads of fate are already interwoven. So, you’d better start getting enthusiastic about this little adventure. It’ll make it easier when the time comes, and rest assured, that time will come quickly.”

  Mimi murmured a quiet assent that was as much growl as speech. I didn’t dare look into her eyes, though I could feel her gaze on me.

  Zaira sat silently, staring at her plate. I guess there’s not exactly a “Daughter’s Guide to Infernal Conspiracies” out there.

  “Alright,” I said, defeated. I had traded debt for extortion. In fairness, I loved the idea of killing the Patron, exorcising him from this world and, in doing so, maybe gaining a shred of real freedom or at least a glimpse. But it seemed so impossible, as though someone suggested we blow up the sun or halt the tides.

  “Hey,” Jerry said, reaching over to put a hand on my shoulder, his eyes softening a bit. “It ain’t occurred to you yet, because you haven’t figured out the limits of your gilded cage, but trust me. This is the only thing left to do.”

  He stopped and looked me squarely in the eyes. “You really think there’s a chance you’ll be happy taking some 9-5 job selling widgets and pretending it makes a difference?”

  “I was a damn good investment banker,” I said, defensively, ignoring the fresh memory of multiple rejection letters and at least one bad interview.

  “Yeah, until you became a button man—a killer—for Hell,” he fired back. “You really think you can get excited about rates of return and good prices on KBR shares again, after all the shit you went through?”

  He had me there. It was true. I’d tried to hide under an ocean of alcohol and a mountain of drugs. I probably could’ve done well in that interview or applied somewhere I really wanted to get a job, but it wasn’t something I wanted. I struggled to imagine how I’d tolerate company picnics and water cooler bullshit about primetime cable TV.

  “We both know it ain’t happening,” Jerry continued. “I don’t envy you, bud. I was in the violence business before I started working for our friend downstairs. It ain’t easy to readjust. Sometimes it ain’t possible. So, you gotta own it. Whatever you were, whoever you were, doesn’t matter anymore. You’re a Devil’s Gunman, now. May as well wear the banner proudly.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three: Friends in High Places

  The flight home hadn’t been nearly as nice as the one out. Amalfi looked as if she were guarding me as much as attending to me. Maybe that was her purpose, and I hadn’t noticed until my arrangement with Jerry became clear. Otherwise, my trip back was uneventful. Once on the ground, I took a rideshare through the city, out to my place in Deephaven.

  Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until I put my key in the front door lock…and found the door was already unlocked and cracked slightly open. The lock looked intact. Whoever went in had picked it, or, more worrying, had a key.

  I quickly dropped my bags and pulled out the VHS rifle, slapping in a magazine and racking the bolt. I glanced at the crusader’s lamp, which was glowing. Whoever was inside certainly wasn’t here to throw me a party.

  I eased the door open and braced for gunfire or a fireball.

  I got neither. I swept the entryway with my rifle’s sights. Nothing more offensive than some high school photos glared back at me, and I didn’t hear anything running down the hallway or readying a weapon. There were no shouts from police or federal agents, either.

  What I did hear, from the living room, was incessant chatter underscored by the occasional interjection of a laugh track. The chatter was accompanied by the soft peripheral glow of my television. Whoever had broken into my house was watching a sitcom.

  “I’m unarmed,” a man’s voice rang out. “So put down the rifle, and let’s have a talk.”

  “The fuck we will,” I shouted back. “You broke into my home!”

  I moved down the hallway, keeping my rifle on the opening to the living room.

  “That’s part of what we have to talk about,” the voice said. I peered around the corner and saw a young Caucasian man. His pale features and dyed blue hair did little to mask the malicious smirk on his face. He was dressed in an oxford shirt and slacks with a skinny tie, as though he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to look like he’d just joined a band or an investment firm. He wore a silver tie clip with a red blood drop on it.

  I stood there with my rifle sights on his head.

  “I’m here as a messenger,” he said and flashed his teeth. I saw pointed incisors. That was enough for me. “This is peaceful, Nicholas. No need to be violent.”

  I lowered the rifle. I didn’t like the prick’s condescending tone; he sounded like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Those types were always eager to give up information.

  “Okay, let’s talk. Who’s the message from?” I asked.

  “I hold the honored post of Emissary of the Lyndale Coven,” he said politely, examining his nails. “We’ve taken a professional interest in you, and Coven leadership sent me.”

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “What for?”

  “To dictate the terms of your surrender,” he said, locking eyes with me. His hands twitched, then curled slightly. I imagined him leaping off the couch and knocking me down. I fought the urge to bring the rifle to bear, keeping it at the low ready.

  “Thought your kind needed an invite,” I said.

  The man snarled.

  “We both know who built this house. I have a standing invite. The coven master says that the Duke no longer wants you, so you’re fair game. Our agreement, which I have right here, has the details.”

  He pulled a no-shit scroll out of his suit jacket and put it down on my coffee table. I glanced at it. The Lyndale Coven seemed to be under the impression that I belonged to them. I read the word “slave” once, and that was enough for me to decide I wasn’t interested.

  “No dice,” I said.

  “These terms are much more charitable than those the Coven Master wanted,” he said, warning in his voice. “Oath breakers aren’t normally given this kind of clemency.”

  I didn’t have much idea what he meant about oath breakers, but I wasn’t going to play ball with this pompous fuck.

  “Not charitable enough,” I said. “Why do you guys want me? Running out of blood from young clubgoers and runaways?”

  The young vampire smiled again, flashing his teeth with what I’m sure he thought was menace.

  “It’ll certainly improve our coven’s standings with the Duke if we prove we can clean up his loose ends. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent blood thrall. We’ll be taking a pint of blood every month, as—”

  I raised the rifle and sighted in on his head. He sighed, and rolled his eyes.

  “Look, you primitive ape, guns won’t—”

  I fired three times, the rounds earth-shatteringly loud in such a tight place. He screamed in pain and terror as the holy rifle’s bullets tore through him, the wounds leaving bright blue caverns of light.

  His screaming echoed in my head, so I kept shooting. I fired the rest of the magazine until there was nothing left but a corpse, riddled with holes and glowing softly, and me, standing there in my gunpowder-fueled catharsis.

  I dropped the mag and slapped in a fresh one, savoring the sound of the bolt sliding forward and knowing that if the emissary had any friends, they too, would be introduced to the kinetic light of St. Joseph.

  “Anyone else here? I got more.”

  The corpse on the ground shriveled up and turned to ash. I cleared the rest of my house, the kitchen, my private gym, my basement, room by room. I peeled back the shower curtain. I looked under my bed and in every closet, but there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the house. After half an hour of checking and re-checking, playing a game of cat and mouse with a second intruder who di
dn’t exist, I finally achieved what my addled mind considered peace.

  I slung the rifle and went to sweep up the remnants of the intruder, dreading the arrival of the police.

  Surely the neighbors had heard the gunshots. Thirty 5.56mm rounds hitting a body makes a lot of noise, not to mention the vamp’s screams. I couldn’t tell how loud the screams were, anymore. We were in a nice part of town, and rich folks loved calling the cops, doubly so if they thought their precious neighborhood might be in jeopardy.

  The police never came.

  As I was dumping the emissary’s ashes into my garbage disposal, I remembered that one of the spells on the house sound-proofed the insides. Though someone might have seen the muzzle flashes, they likely heard nothing, which was fine by me. The last thing I wanted was to have to cook up some bullshit story about negligent discharges. Long-term, I wasn’t worried. Vampires, at least those common in America, didn’t leave corpses, just ashes. Murder all you wanted, and at the worst, it would look like you waited too long to empty your vacuum bag.

  I posted a note to myself on the fridge to visit the Lyndale Coven to find out why they were trying to extort me. Then I went to sleep, taking care to put the Crusader’s lamp on my bedside table before I did. I dreamed of being ripped to shreds by otherworldly beings as Jerry explained, calmly, that this was the only way to live.

  I awoke not to the sounds of an intruder dismembering me, but to my phone’s alarm clock.

  I shut it off and stumbled around, confirming all my guns were where I left them. The Templar’s Lamp sat, undisturbed, without the faintest hint of incense. The rest of my bedroom, from the framed painting of the Minneapolis skyline to the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets I’d just dumped on the floor, was silent. I calmed down a bit and prepared to start my day.

  I got up and went through my morning routine, a quick workout, a protein-heavy breakfast (I’ll eat eggs just about any way they’re made, but for my money, there’s no better way to start a morning than with a bacon and jalapeno egg-white omelet), and a shower. Showers are perhaps the only time in my life when I can relax. I did, occasionally, imagine a Psycho-like scenario where someone stabbed me to death through the curtain, but usually, the warm water and my hygiene occupied my mind, replacing fear and paranoia with the banality of routine.