The Man Who Crossed Worlds (Miles Franco #1)

by Chris Strange

CHAPTER FIVE

  I came to in a moving car. Something was pressing against my face that smelled of old socks and made the air stuffy and barely breathable. I opened my eyes, but it didn’t do any good; whatever was over my head blocked out the light completely. I was lying down, and my muscles ached like I’d been trampled by a crowd of drunks.

  My heart thudded. What the hell had happened? I tried to piece together the last few moments I remembered.

  Ah, right. That bloody little girl had tasered me. When I got out of this I’d have to have a stern talk with Peterson about appropriate toys for his niece.

  I tried to stretch my arms, but it did no good. My wrists were tightly bound behind my back, and so were my ankles. I wriggled around and tried to sit up, but that just sent shooting pain flying through my head, so I gave up.

  Hell. I was up shit creek without a paddle, a boat, or a pair of water wings. I tried to fight down a rising panic. If this car belonged to the man I thought it did, I was dead already. Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice thin. “Any chance we can talk this out?”

  No response. I doubted anyone could hear me. I had a pretty good idea I was in the trunk; whatever I was lying on wasn’t cushioned enough to be a seat. I squirmed again, managing to shuffle along a few inches before my head struck the inside of the trunk and sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through my skull.

  “Ow,” I said. No point being stoic if I was by myself.

  I could hear my rapid breathing even over the rumble of the car and the rain pounding outside. It was turning into a hell of a rainstorm. Not the kind of weather I wanted to die in, to be honest, but I supposed it fitted the mood.

  All right, think, Miles. I could feel the handle of the folding knife digging into my hip, and the nightstick pressed against my ribs. It didn’t bode well for me if they hadn’t bothered to disarm me; it meant they weren’t planning on letting me live long enough to use them. But maybe if I could get my knife I could cut my bonds, and then…

  Then what? I remembered seeing a TV show about what to do if you find yourself locked in a trunk. I was tired at the time, so I turned it off and went to bed. Why was it that I was always foiled by my desire to sleep?

  Maybe I could get out through the back seat, if it was that kind of car, or maybe I could kick out the brake light.

  Damn it, if only Tania hadn’t used the last of my Kemia, I’d be out of here in a snap. That girl had a lot to answer for.

  No, that was just the panic talking. Maybe if I had a consistent income I’d be able to buy more than one bottle at a time. Here I lay, Miles Franco, freelance Tunneler, man who crossed worlds, trapped in a car trunk and struggling desperately to reach my pocket knife because I couldn’t afford a lousy bottle of Kemia.

  It would have been funny if it wasn’t for all this imminent death.

  I managed to touch the knife with the tips of my fingers when the car pulled to a halt and sent me tumbling over. Fat lot of good that did. The car engine stopped and doors were opened and closed. I waited and resisted the urge to start screaming.

  There was a click, then a cool breeze washed over me and harsh artificial light came through the hood over my head. I caught a whiff of petrol and cigarette smoke.

  “Think he’s awake yet?” a nasally voice said, the thick Vei accent obvious even through the hood.

  Something hard jabbed me in the ribs, and I yelped.

  “Sure sounds like it,” another man said, this voice deep and human.

  Hands grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me out of the trunk. My head pounded at the sudden movement, but I’d be damned if I was going to whimper twice in front of these bastards. If I was going to die, I’d preserve the last of my dignity until they shot it right out of my skull.

  Someone ripped the hood off my head. Fresh air rushed in, and I squinted against the sudden glare. It was still night, but a bright spotlight shone on my face. I leaned back against the car, trying to work out where I was. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to have my wrists untied.

  I was under some sort of awning, which explained why I wasn’t getting any more soaked. Rain slashed down onto the wide concrete expanse in front of me, leaving deep puddles that cast back reflections of shattered light. Above me was a corrugated iron roof held up by unpainted wooden beams, thundering under the sky’s barrage. If I had to guess, I’d say we were at one of the hundreds of dock warehouses north of the central city. It didn’t escape me that John Andrews owned most of these docks, either officially or unofficially.

  Two men stood in front of me, looking like they’d just been ripped out of a 50s gangster movie. The big one drew my attention first. He was human, six and a half feet with change, and so grossly overweight I was amazed his knees hadn’t buckled already. His companion, a Vei man, didn’t even come to my shoulder. His pale face was lined with wrinkles, and a cigarette dangled from his wide mouth.

  Both the gangsters were dressed in well-fitted black suits, with black shirts underneath. On both their heads were fedora hats. Honest to God, fedoras. You can’t make this stuff up. I half-expected them to pull out Tommy guns and break into fake Italian accents.

  Both of them were staring at me with bored expressions, so I decided it must be my turn to kick off the conversation. “How about this weather, huh?”

  They didn’t go for it. The big one—Butch, I decided to call him—drove his fist into my stomach so hard I expected to feel his fingers tickling my tonsils. I doubled over and gasped for breath. My vision went spotty for a moment, and a fresh wave of pain rolled through my head.

  All right, so that didn’t go how I hoped.

  The Vei—I thought the name Ugly suited him—sneered up at me and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. “You know, it’s awful late for you to be inconveniencing us.” He took a long drag of his smoke, his gaze never leaving my eyes. “It’s a real pain, to be frank. That little maggot Peterson could have done us the favor of finishing you off himself.”

  “Well hell, if it’s a bad time, you guys go home and get some shut-eye,” I said. “We can pick this whole kidnapping thing up in the morning.”

  Butch’s face didn’t move—he’d probably traded in his sense of humor along with his moral fiber—but Ugly smirked, baring his teeth. “Nah, this won’t take long. Besides, the wife snores like a kuroth. I wouldn’t’ve been sleeping anyways.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Ugly dropped his cigarette to the concrete and crushed it with a shoe that cost more than my entire outfit. With a casual gesture, he reached under his jacket and pulled out a stunted black pistol.

  Blood pounded in my ears, and my legs lost some of their strength. “Hey, wait a minute, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Butch reached behind me with surprising speed and grabbed me by the arms, pulling me in front of him. I could feel his breath on my head, coming much more slowly than my own. Ugly brought the gun up under my chin, slowly, deliberately, no smirk on his face now. “Peterson tells us you’ve been talking to the cops, Miles. Can I call you Miles?”

  In general, I made it a point not to argue with people holding me at gunpoint. I nodded, moving as little as possible, while trying vainly to stretch my head away from the pistol.

  “Now,” Ugly said, inclining his head toward Butch, “you may have guessed that my companion and I ain’t too fond of the boys in blue. Our boss doesn’t take too kindly to them either. They’re expensive little pets, except for the few wild dogs sniffing around where they don’t belong.” He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol—a pointless gesture, given it was a semi-automatic, but effective nonetheless. “But if you be a good little boy, maybe we’ll forget all about who you work for. Does that sound good, Miles?”

  “Given the alternatives, I really can’t complain.”

  “Good. That’ll make things go much smoother. Now, our employer just wants to know one little thing: what do the cops know about Chroma?”

  I
opened my mouth to speak, reasoning that such knowledge would go public soon even if I decided to have principles and get a bullet through my brain. But something in Ugly’s face gave me pause, a faint flaring of the nostrils that I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t spent a lot of time with Vei over the years. I checked myself, and frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

  He jammed the pistol up against my chin, forcing my face skyward. “You’ll answer the question, Tunneler. Don’t make me ask again.”

  I shook my head, slowly. “I got a better idea,” I said in Vei. “Take me to John Andrews.”

  The words got out of my mouth before I’d even realized what I was doing. It wasn’t gambling, it was Russian Roulette with bullets in five chambers. But right then, the only way I was getting off that dock alive was to invoke some fear in them. I wasn’t going to be scaring them, but I knew who would.

  Butch tightened his grip on my arms, and Ugly showed his teeth to me, dozens of sharp, vicious points glinting in the spotlight overhead. The first crash of thunder rolled across the city, while the rain hammered around us. I held my breath, praying to Jesus or Krishna or the Eight that Ugly wasn’t as trigger-happy as he looked.

  Someone up there was listening. Ugly leaned in close, bringing his teeth uncomfortably close to my neck.

  “And why,” he hissed in Vei, “should I do that? Why shouldn’t I dump you in the river with a couple of bullet-sized wounds in your head?”

  “Because,” I said, “your boss has no fucking idea who Doctor Dee is, does he?”

  Ugly’s eyes twitched, and that was all I needed. Like I said, Vei aren’t good liars.

  I felt a momentary thrill of victory, despite a not-inconsiderable suspicion that he might pop a cap in me just to spite me. If it had been Butch holding the gun, I would have bet money on it, but it seemed like there was a reason Ugly was the one in charge. His breath came hissing through his teeth, but he lowered the gun a fraction and switched back to English. “Not important, Franco. Tell me what you know.”

  “No.”

  He snarled and glanced up at Butch. The brute’s hands became a vice. I grunted at the sudden pain as he started to crush me. “Andrews. I’ll talk to Andrews. I’ll make a deal.”

  “You’ll deal with me.”

  “You kill me, your boss won’t be happy.”

  “Last chance, Miles.”

  It felt like my bones were being scraped against each other. But I couldn’t back down now. I’d pushed Ugly too far, and I knew if I told him anything—or if I knew anything to tell him—I’d be dead anyway. No, this was my only chance. So I gritted my teeth and did my best to smile. “Fuck you, lumpfish.”

  That did it. Lumpfish was the nastiest derogatory term one could level at a Vei, and you could argue there was a certain resemblance. Not that it was smart to air that opinion if you were fond of keeping your head attached to your neck. But right now, being smart wasn’t an option.

  Ugly smacked me across the face with the butt of his pistol. Fresh pain screamed through my cheek, and I dropped to my knees as Butch let me go.

  While I kneeled, trying not to shout, Ugly grabbed me by my curls and yanked my face up. He stared down at me, murder burning in his eyes, and snarled. “Bring him. I want to see Mr. Andrews set him on fire.”