by AnonYMous
This man, standing over him in a bloodstained singlet, muscled, bronzed and toned, was the Bourbon Kid. That much was only too obvious.
Benson swallowed a mouthful of blood along with a few chunks of vomit that surged into his mouth. He didn’t want to look the man in the eye. He was getting a taste of the pain and terror that he and his friends had inflicted on this guy’s brother. He didn’t really know where to look, but as his eyes began to fill with bitter tears he caught sight of movement within the elevator. The hooded man into whom he had ploughed four bullets, the one he had wrongly assumed was the Kid, had climbed to his feet and pulled his hood back.
‘Chip?’ Benson mouthed quietly in astonishment, dribbling blood down his chin as he did so. He recognized the newest member of the Dreads from a recent visit he’d made to the Nightjar. A look at the officer in the elevator with Chip, the one who had repeatedly kicked him in the balls, revealed a wholly unfamiliar face, for Benson had never met Dante. His major concern was centred on the face staring down over him. He knew that one all right. It was only too familiar.
‘Déjà-Vu?’
‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been here before?’ asked the Kid. ‘Only last time you weren’t on the receiving end.’
Benson swallowed another small amount of vomit that had just spurted into his mouth.
‘Oh God! It wasn’t my idea, I swear. I tried to be merciful.’
The Bourbon Kid leant over his panic-stricken enemy. ‘Last time my brother called me, I listened to you torture him for five minutes and twenty-five seconds before he finally died.’
To the right of the Kid, Benson saw the dreadlocked figure of Peto moving. He was still wearing the Kid’s long dark robe, and he was opening it up as if he were about to take it off. Within it, two things were immediately evident. The four bullet wounds to his chest were healing nicely, courtesy of the blue stone he was wearing around his neck. And, secondly, and of greater concern to Benson, the inner lining of the robe held a plethora of sharp instruments of different shapes and sizes.
Peto walked towards the Kid, who for a moment took his gaze away from the pathetic shambles of Randy Benson. Inside of the robe Peto was wearing was one weapon he had saved especially for this moment, a wooden-handled M3-style bayonet. He pulled it out of the narrow pocket that neatly housed it and turned back to face his victim. This blade would be just the first of many weapons he would use in the course of the torture and eventual killing of Randy Benson.
With his face showing barely a hint of emotion, the Bourbon Kid reached down and pulled Benson up by his white hair.
‘Your idiot friend Igor squealed and told me exactly what you all did. And I believe it started with one hand being sliced off at the wrist.’
‘Hunter did that! It wasn’t me!’
‘Like I give a shit.’
‘It’s true, I swear. I begged the others to let him be. I could see it was wrong.’
‘Admit what you did.’
‘I didn’t do nothin’, I swear.’ Benson was weaselling for all he was worth. It wasn’t working. It was only ensuring that he left the world without a vestige of dignity or self-respect.
‘So you’re innocent?’
‘Yes, yes! I’m innocent, I swear.’
The Kid took a look at the blade on the bayonet and gazed at his reflection in it. ‘You’re innocent, huh? Y’know somethin’? My brother was an innocent too. And there are only so many ways you can torture a total innocent in five minutes and twenty-five seconds. Let’s go through them together. When we come to one that you remember from my brother’s death, just scream it out.’
Fifty-Three
Many times Dante had to look away during the torture and eventual execution of Detective Randy Benson. No doubt about it, it was a cruel, gruesome and unpleasant business, to say the least.
He and Peto had hoped not to become too involved, but after the Kid used the bayonet to slice off one of Benson’s hands at the wrist, their involvement became essential. They had followed the Kid’s instructions and held Benson down flat on his back while the Kid exacted his vengeance. It had started with a small knife being used to remove the screaming vampire’s eyelids, no doubt to ensure he was able to see everything that was done to him thereafter. Blood had begun spraying out right from the start, and Dante had turned away when the blade was next used to cut off Benson’s lips. He had looked back occasionally when the level of Benson’s screaming changed, but he had probably missed seeing half of what happened. It was clear that the vampire had had his nipples sliced off, but the worst part Dante actually witnessed was the removal of the vampire’s fingernails on his remaining hand as the Kid stuck a blade underneath them and hacked them out. The navel suffered next. By this time it was obvious that the Kid’s attentions were heading below Benson’s waistline. The agonized screams from their victim ensured that both Dante and Peto kept their eyes averted from that point on.
Now, Dante knew that Benson was evil and a vampire and all that, but whatever he’d done to the Bourbon Kid’s brother surely didn’t warrant the kind of disgusting, vile punishments inflicted on him. Did it? Dante liked the Bourbon Kid, in so much as you can like someone who is liable to kill you without reason at any moment, and who has probably killed a vast number of people who didn’t deserve it. People with families. But he was growing increasingly anxious to get the hell out of there and get Kacy back from the Secret Service people. He hated the thought of her left alone with Swann and Valdez all this time. Particularly Swann. What the hell would that scumbag be doing with her while Dante was out doing his dirty work for him? Taking her out for dinner and getting her drunk the other night may have just been the first part of some seedy plan to seduce her. Still, Dante told himself hopefully, it wouldn’t be long now before he showed up with the cavalry and got Kacy away.
The undead existence of Detective Randy Benson finally came to an end after the five minutes and twenty-five seconds of pure hell that the Kid had promised him. The last thirty seconds involved no weapons other than the Kid’s fists repeatedly pounding his victim’s face into a pulp. The last act came when, as instructed by the Kid, Peto rammed The Book With No Name into the stricken vampire’s chest. They watched as his remains turned to flame, smoke and then ash. Benson’s screams were replaced by sighs of relief as the final moments of his time on earth ebbed away.
With their mission now seemingly over, Dante and Peto were both eager to get out of the place. No sense in hanging around in a police headquarters when you’re wanted cop killers, right?
Peto had retrieved a sealed plastic container of blood from the inside pocket of Benson’s jacket, which had been tossed aside with the rest of his clothes during his drawn-out execution at the hands of the Kid. ‘What do you want to do with this?’ he asked the weary-looking torturer, who had removed his white singlet and was using it to wipe clean the various knives and other implements he had bloodied during the extermination of Randy Benson.
‘What is it?’ the Kid asked.
‘Just a bag of blood, by the looks of it. Like for transfusions and things.’
‘Fuck it. Leave it here.’
‘Yeah? What if it’s important?’
‘Fine. Take it home with you and put it in your freezer if you want.’
Peto took the hint and tossed the bag of blood on to the floor. It landed with a soft thump and bounced once, then slid along the tiled floor until it disappeared under one of the long wooden benches that ran along the wall beneath a row of lockers.
‘So what now?’ the monk asked.
The Kid ignored him and made his way over to the secret back room. The golden chalice shone brightly in the centre of the antique wooden table within the room. He picked it up and tossed it over to Peto, who caught it with one hand.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ asked the dreadlocked monk.
‘Take that and The Book With No Name somewhere where no one will get them. Bury them somewhere. In fact, why don’t you fuck off ba
ck to Hubal with ’em? That’s where the Eye of the Moon, the Holy Grail and all that shit should be kept. It’s where they belong, and it’s where you belong.’
Peto bridled. He didn’t much care for being spoken to like this, not by anyone. He’d fought hard to fit in in Santa Mondega, and he didn’t like the implication that he didn’t belong.
‘You think I should go back to Hubal, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’d be Hubal, the island that’s currently uninhabited since someone,’ he glared at the Kid, ‘Someone turned up a year ago and killed all the monks?’
‘Yeah, that Hubal.’
‘Well, I’ll decide where the fuck I’m goin’, thanks. I don’t need your cheap-ass useless fuckin’ opinion. Anyway, it was pissin’ down with rain when we got here. I can’t carry that damn great book around with me in torrential rain.’
‘So stick it in one of these lockers an’ come back for it tomorrow when it’s stopped rainin’.’
Peto let out a deep sigh. ‘How did you ever conquer Hubal? Do you ever think anything through? This book is incredibly valuable. It can kill the fiercest of vampires, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Yeah, but that was the new Head Vampire we just killed. The book no longer serves a purpose. In fact, I’m not even sure we needed it to kill that guy. He was practically dead when you used it on him anyway.’
‘Yes, but still…’
Tiring of the bickering, Dante picked up The Book With No Name from where it was sitting atop the charred remains of Randy Benson. He carried it over to the lockers on the side wall and tucked it safely in locker number 65 on the top row. The other two looked on, slightly disappointed that their quarrelling had to come to an end.
‘Okay. We ready?’ Dante asked.
‘I’m ready,’ said the Bourbon Kid, shrugging.
‘Wait, one more thing,’ said Peto, pointing at the bare-chested killer. ‘Do you still wanna borrow this blue stone I’m wearin’ while the blue moon is up, or what?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Let’s go do this outside,’ said the Kid. He picked up his robe and draped it over one arm, ramming the bloodstained singlet into a pocket somewhere inside the robe. Then he stepped past Dante and into the elevator.
Dante cleared his throat. The time had come to remind the others of a matter that was of burning importance to him. ‘Uh – you ain’t forgotten we’re goin’ to rescue my girlfriend, have you?’
The Kid sighed. ‘Of course. Let me just use the stone to get rid of these vampire urges I’m getting, ’cos right now I feel like bitin’ that dickwad over there,’ he nodded at Peto. ‘You comin’, Monk Boy?’
Peto shrugged. ‘Yep. Be clear though: I’m only goin’ to let you borrow the stone. I get it right back the moment you’re done with it.’
The three of them stepped into the befouled elevator and headed up to the ground floor. Dante was keener than ever to get back to Kacy now. She needed him, and he needed to be back with the woman he loved.
Who, as things stood at the current time, was probably the only sane person he knew.
Fifty-Four
Sanchez was pretty fucked off, even by his own usual fucked-off standards. It had been a crap day all round, what with the reappearance of the Bourbon Kid and the trip across town to the library. But now, having been all round the Tapioca and cleaned the place up, washed the blood off the walls and sent Sally home for the evening, four goddam customers had walked in.
The tubby bartender wasn’t in the mood for serving anyone, but he also hadn’t wanted Sally hanging around, in case any cops showed up. There was no need for her to be giving any statements to them and landing him in trouble. Of course, not one cop had shown up to take so much as a statement or fingerprint anyway. What was pissing him off most of all, though, was the fact that he wanted some peace and quiet so that he could take a look through The Book of Death. In particular, he wanted to run his eye over the names entered under tomorrow’s date.
So now here he was with the bar area clean(ish) again and four customers seated on stools at the bar. Nasty tough-looking bastards they were, too. Not the normal-looking tough guys you got round these parts. These guys were military men, Sanchez could tell that from the minute they walked in. They had that swagger about them, and a manner that would have intimidated most other customers, if there had been any. Their presence was enough to ensure that Sanchez kept The Book of Death hidden away under the bar.
Upon entering they had immediately acted oddly. One man went straight ahead to the bar while the other three hung back a while, scoping out the corners of the barroom, very obviously checking for any potential danger lurking in the shadows.
In fact, Sanchez recognized one of them as a former resident of Santa Mondega, though he had left the city as a much younger man. His name was Bull, and he was the leader of this crew. This crew, had Sanchez known it, was Shadow Company, a team of highly decorated soldiers specializing in clandestine operations behind enemy lines. During their well-earned time off, however, they were available for hire on any muscle or rescue job, as long as the price was right. All four of them were fiercely loyal to each other, and it was this loyalty that was the principal reason why they were in Santa Mondega. They had a special job to do.
An unpaid job.
A revenge mission. One that Bull had waited many years for.
And tonight was the night.
The four of them were dressed in matching combat jackets, black pants, brown belts, tight black T-shirts, sunglasses with very dark lenses and black army assault boots. None seemed to have any headgear. What distinguished them from each other was a differing array of styles above the neck. Bull’s jet-black hair was worn in a military-style flattop. He sat at the end of the bar chewing on a thick Cuban cigar.
To his right was the distinctly eccentric Silvinho. His head was mostly shaved down to the skin, save for a four-inch-high bright pink mohawk running fore-and-aft down the middle. He also had a distinctive teardrop tattoo below his left eye, and a thin gold ring through his right nostril.
The man next to him was Razor, whose close buzz-cut was upstaged by a diagonal scar across his face from just above the right eye, through his nose and down to the left corner of his mouth. The damage had been inflicted upon him many years earlier in a fight to the death with a terrorist wielding a samurai sword.
The last man, sitting furthest from Bull but closest to where Sanchez was standing behind the bar, was Tex. At six-foot-seven and broadly built to match, he was a giant with greasy, shoulder-length black hair and a goatee that hung down a few inches below his chin. Yet even though Tex was the biggest of the four, there wasn’t much to choose between them. Silvinho was the shortest at a mere six-foot-two, although once his mohawk was taken into consideration he was more like six-foot-six.
Each of the four soldiers had a glass of beer in front of him. When Bull took a sip, the other three would follow suit. He was clearly the pace man, and no one else’s glass was ever less full than his. He would be the first to finish his drink, and the others would then do the same. Each was now working his way through his second cigar of the day. Again, when Bull lit up, the others did so as well.
To Sanchez’s annoyance, it had been over half an hour since any of them had spoken. Bull had ordered the drinks and then the four of them had sat there in silence, staring straight ahead. Normally this would have given Sanchez the shits, but since the earlier events of the day when he had survived his third Bourbon Kid massacre, he was past soiling himself in public.
With the vile weather and it being Halloween, no one was walking the streets outside or poking their head round the doors to see if the Tapioca was open for business. That is, until an unaccompanied woman walked in. She had the walk and figure of a woman in her early twenties, but the tired look on her face suggested she might be a good few years older. Her long brown hair seemed to be dry, although the rest of her was drenched right through to the skin. A dark blue skirt covered her legs down to the ankle
s, but had done little to keep them dry. Sanchez noted that her similarly coloured dark-blue sweatshirt had a hood at the back, which she had obviously worn up over her head to keep her hair dry but had been smart enough to lower before she walked in.
Although Sanchez didn’t particularly like this woman, who had a colourful past and a facial disfigurement which made it hard to talk to her without staring at it, he decided to make her welcome (insofar as he was capable of making anyone feel welcome), simply because he was becoming irritated by the lack of conversation.
‘What’ll it be?’ he asked.
‘Orange juice, please, Sanchez,’ she replied.
‘Sorry. Fresh out.’
‘Pineapple juice then, please.’
‘Fresh out o’ that too.’
‘Oh. Okay, what soft drinks do you have?’
‘Fresh out.’
‘Water?’
‘Sure. It’s kinda a yellow colour, though.’
‘In that case I’ll pass, thanks.’ She pulled up a stool next to Tex. ‘Mind if I just sit here till the rain eases up?’
The four soldiers paid her no attention, but Sanchez smiled. ‘Sure, as long as you abide by the smoking ban.’
‘It’s okay.’ She smiled back politely. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Then you’re outta here. The Tapioca is for smokers only. Non-smokers are banned.’
The woman looked across at the four men sitting on stools to her left. Each of them was staring straight ahead and puffing on a thick brown cigar.
‘You serious?’ she asked.
‘’Fraid so,’ said Sanchez.
‘Really?’
‘Really. You’re gonna have to start smoking or leave.’
Tex turned to the woman and blew a lungful of smoke in her face. He then looked her up and down before staring her in the eye and saying in a slow Southern drawl, ‘Take the hint, lady.’
