I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  Or so he hoped.

  Working the control cord, Boone tried to guide himself. A line of headlights bounced over a road towards the castle, reinforcements from the village garrison. A heavy machine gun on one of the gatehouse towers came to life, tracers zipping into the convoy, headlights extinguished and skewed in crazed directions as vehicles careened across and from the road. That would be one of their guys on the MG.

  Boone braced himself, the curtain wall with its towers and hoardings looming directly beneath him. He gave the control cord one final tug and brought his feet together, ready to hit the ground and roll, but he was nowhere near the ground—he was going right into the wall. Shit! His feet touched down on the wooden roof of a hoarding, the structure giving under him, Boone plunging through its roof and into the shed-like structure itself, colliding with a soft target—a startled cry cut off—and then his feet touched down upon the stone of the battlements, atop the sheltered walkway.

  Boone sat up, part of his chute billowing about him, the rest of it hung up in the ceiling. He’d landed on someone and they weren’t moving. He was trying to unbuckle himself when he heard movement among the wood shards behind him. Before he could turn, a garrote dropped over Boone’s neck and tightened. Somehow he’d managed to get his fingers up between the piano wire and his throat.

  The Thuggee behind him reared back, looking to strangle the large man who’d just come through the roof of the hoarding and onto his friend. Boone pulled at the wire, the garrote biting into his palm, drawing blood.

  An incessant chatter of small arms from the bailey, followed by a massive explosion.

  Boone rammed his head back into his assailant’s face, feeling something crack. Still, the Thuggee clung in place. Boone twisted around, the both of them entwined in the material of the parachute. Automatic fire sounded close by. Boone, choking behind the garrote, spied two camouflaged soldiers popping up and ducking down behind the crenellated battlements, firing their own submachine guns, crouch walking towards the hoarding.

  Shit.

  He drove the elbow of his free arm back through the parachute fabric and felt it connect with the Thuggee’s torso. Again. And again, but the man wouldn’t let go, like he was riding a bull. Boone whirled them around, spied a trio of black-clad Ninja creeping their way from the opposite direction, the other end of the battlements, swords up high.

  Double shit.

  Another elbow into the man on his back and Boone’s arm brushed the H&K UMP strapped to his side. He found the trigger guard, his finger brushing over the safety. Boone took three steps back and smashed the man clinging to him against the stone of the merlons and the wood of the hoarding. He jerked his head from side to side—

  The Ninja entering the hoarding with them, the two soldiers having paused to loose bursts down into the bailey—

  —Boone’s finger flicking the safety off the UMP, the submachine gun pinned to his side, twisting his body and loosing a full-auto burst, one soldier’s hands flying up into the air as his body sank to the walkway, pink misting the air, the second man swept from his feet, collapsing onto his side.

  Boone ratcheted his body in the opposite direction, the Thuggee clinging to him piggy back. The Ninja had turned and were beating a hasty retreat. Boone fired half of the remaining magazine at them, dropping two. The third vaulted off the bailey wall between merlons, dropping from sight into the carnage below.

  Automatic fire sounded from behind, the Thuggee on Boone’s back shuddering and finally letting go of the garrote. The wounded man flat on his side on the walkway was firing on Boone, nailing his assailant. Boone dropped as the rounds snapped through the air where he’d stood, twisting and sending what remained in the UMP’s 30-round curved magazine back at the soldier, the man flopping onto his back, finished.

  “Fuck!” Boone rapsed, throwing the garrote from himself. He gulped down the night air, dropping the magazine from the UMP, reloading. He pressed himself against the bailey wall, presenting as little a target as he could to anyone and anything that might happen down the walkway. He unbuckled and shrugged out of the parachute harness, revealing the sleeveless white surcoat that reached down to his feet and the mantle over it, a full cape that extended to the floor. Oversized blood red crosses adorned the mantle on his back and the surcoat on his chest.

  They’d stand out like ghosts against the night’s dark in the white, but Colson had sworn the Knights Templar getups would strike fear into any vampire they encountered.

  Men bellowed outside the hoarding.

  Boone let the H&K hang at his side, checking the load on the semi-automatic shotgun he’d adopted upon Big Duke’s departure. Seven shells were chambered. Boone thumbed two more from the webbing on his belt. He drew the bolt on the M4 back three quarters and placed a shell in the chamber and another on the lifter, ghost loading the shotgun. With seven in the magazine, one on the lifter and one in the chamber, he felt as ready as he was going to be.

  Boone eyed the keep, saw where it met the bailey wall some distance further along. He headed in that direction, out onto the ramparts, the rattle of automatic and semi-automatic fire punctuating the night below.

  Transcript of 9-1-1 call:

  Police Department.

  Yeah.

  How can I help you?

  Yeah, yo.

  Sir—how is it I may assist you?

  I’m callin’ ‘bout the missing rapper.

  What kind of wrapping sir?

  No—rapper. Come on, everybody know who he be.

  You’re calling to report a missing person, sir?

  Nah, I’m callin’ ‘bout a missin’ person.

  And who would that be, sir?

  Yo, the man hisself, yo. Busta Nutz.

  Busta Nutz?

  Yeah, you know, the rapper? Name’s Mitchell something or other.

  You’re calling to report this man missing?

  Nah, what I’m sayin’, I’m callin’ cause he be missin’.

  Sir, there’s no one reported missing by that name.

  Nuh, he wouldn’t be reported missin’ as Busta. His name be Mitchell or sum shit—

  This is New York City, sir. I’m familiar with the rap singer Busta Nutz. And he hasn’t been reported missing.

  What you sayin’?

  Sir, what I’m saying is no one has reported the singer you’re referring to as missing.

  Nah.

  That’s what I’m saying, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?

  Nuh. Forget it.

  44.

  4:27 A.M. (CEST)

  Rounding a corner of the wall, Boone ran into a group of armed men.

  They were decked out in dated four-color camo fatigues, blurs of wood-brown and green polygons on tan backgrounds with random patterns of green dashes. Armed like the other mercenaries of the castle, they carried H&K G36 assault rifles, some sporting 30-round box magazines, others 100-round C-Mag drum mags. One man was down, sprawled across the stones, a puddle of red under his head. Another had his back to the wall and was bleeding profusely from the shoulder, one of his comrades crouching down next to him, attending to his wound. Four others stood with them, rising to rip off blasts at someone down in the bailey, quickly ducking down, Boone figured them looking like whack-a-mole to whoever they were shooting at.

  The wounded guy saw him as he stepped around the corner, his mouth going slack. His buddy saw the look on his face and turned into the first blast from the Benelli, the buckshot tightly grouped at this short distance, demolishing the man’s skull. Boone triggered the shotgun repeatedly, shell casings ejecting out of the side of the thing, the men at the wall knocked from their feet, one sent tumbling across the battlement like a discarded bowling pin. The wounded man looked up into Boone’s eyes but found no mercy there.

  Boone let him have it and reloaded.

  Thumbing shells into the magazine, he risked a look between two merlons, down into the bailey. Dozens of bodies lay scattered about. Muzzle flashes winked from oth
er sections of the curtain wall, down into the soldiers on the ground. He saw Colson clearly, saw the vampire with his katana, surrounded by half a dozen circling ninja. Colson turned slowly where he stood, waiting for the attack. Boone thought about sending a few rips from the H&K down into the ninja, evening the odds a little bit for the vamp, then thought better of it.

  Fuck Colson. His teacher. Let’s see how he did.

  A full auto tear sent Boone across the walkway to investigate, peering over the opposite side. A swarm of soldiers coming on foot from the village had almost reached the wall of the castle when a lone gunman stepped from the shadows and blasted them. Boone watched the men tumble, reflexes triggering their own submachine guns in every conceivable direction. The gunman’s white mantle flowed behind him as he disappeared back through the sally port into the castle.

  Boone wasn’t sure who it’d been.

  Vehicles from the village futilely tried to climb the road, tracers zipping down from one gatehouse tower into them. Headlights popped and skewed off the road, trucks smashing into previously stalled vehicles. The men in the backs of the trucks hopped out of the beds to the ground and promptly crumbled under the withering fire from the gatehouse.

  Cursing himself for arriving late to the party, Boone crossed the walkway to peer back over the crenel. Two of the ninja were down, Colson standing against four. Sparks and stone chips drove Boone down into a crouch, bullets whining past, his head shielded behind a merlon. They were firing on him from the curtain wall, across the bailey. He glanced between two merlons, ducking his head back as muzzle flashes greeted him anew.

  His back pressed against the stone wall, rounds zipped past Boone on either side. He looked left and right, making sure no one was approaching him on this section of walkway. No one was. He rose up and let rip with his H&K before dropping down, the answering fire abraiding the stone of the merlon, showering dust and rock across the ramparts.

  He looked to his right—still nothing—and then his left, where a Thuggee with a dagger was crouched over and stalking towards him. The turbaned assassin saw that Boone saw him and turned to run when Boone cleared the big Colt Anaconda from its holster, the .44 booming, fluted cylinder jerking skyward with each discharge, one shot going wide—two—a third—Boone centering the man in the iron sights—

  Boom!

  —his fourth shot lifting the man from his feet, his turban knocked from his head.

  Bullets continued to smack into the opposite side of the wall. For good measure Boone fired over the merlon to his left and right, emptying the stainless steel revolver to no effect. Son of a bitch had some kick to it. He was reloading the .44 when explosions sounded across the way. Boone looked up to see the walkway opposite his position enveloped in fire, incinerated rag dolls of men pitching from the wall.

  Someone had helped his ass out.

  Boone looked down to Colson, the vampire holding its ground against the remaining ninja, only two of them now. Looked like the vamp was doing just fine.

  Holstering the Anaconda, Boone resumed his path. The walkway curved as he followed it, the keep looming ever closer. Between Boone and his target, a machicolated stone tower jutted out of the wall. He stepped into the shadows of the tower and found it deserted. Crossing to where the walkway resumed—

  “Shko n’kar!”

  —Boone ducked back as a section of the stone wall erupted, chunks of stone and mortar showering the walk. He coughed and waved the dust from his face, chancing a look around the corner. A tall, heavy man in fatigues with a rubber-banded spade beard had a multi-barreled grenade launcher up at his shoulder. And the motherfucker was shooting the thing at him!

  Boone hugged the wall as the man sent another 40mm round into the side of the tower, a cloud of concrete dust billowing around him. When the ringing from the close-quarters explosion died down, Boone clearly heard the man raging in Albanian: “Te dhjefsha racen!”

  Boone fired the UMP around the wall, a ragged burst of 9mm lead. He yanked his hand and the submachine gun back as the cylinder on the multi-shot grenade launcher rotated, a third grenade bouncing off the stone wall, catapulting into empty space and detonating in mid-air.

  “Te qifsha motren!” The man was screaming at Boone, telling him he’d fuck his sister. The threats abruptly choked off in a gargled scream.

  Boone risked a look around the wall.

  The big man was on his knees, the grenade launcher on the stones beside him. He was reaching over his shoulder, trying to dislodge the axe buried in his clavicle. Blood geysered from him in little spurts, spattering his beard and face. Damian stood behind the man in his Knight’s Templar get-up, grasping the axe with both hands, trying to free it from the man.

  Boone strode out onto the walkway. “Move, Damian.”

  Damian let go of the axe and went to the wall as Boone leveled the Benelli.

  The soldier looked up at Boone with hatred in his eyes.

  “…budol douch…” he managed weakly before the 12-gauge boomed.

  Damian wore the mantel over the surcoat but his arms were bare, the muscles and tattoos of his upper and lower arms rippling. Covered in a great deal of blood, he only managed to get more on himself as he yanked the axe out of the bearded man.

  “Where you been?” Boone asked him. The gunfire below wasn’t as heavy as before.

  “I should be asking you the same thing.” Damian flicked his wrist, blood spraying from the axe-blade and head.

  “I got hung up.”

  “I’ve been clearing the wall. What do we have in that direction?”

  “Couple Ninja, couple Thuggee, bunch of other dead fucks.”

  “Big Mike’s in the tower.”

  Tracer rounds streaked down into the frozen vehicles, into the soldiers stranded on the road.

  “I was wondering who was on the machine gun.”

  “You mind if I hang onto this?” Damian had taken up the bearded man’s grenade launcher.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “You’re going into the Keep? Kane’s in there already.” A parachute fluttered from the roof of the main tower.

  “What about you?” Boone replaced the shell he’d fired from his shotgun.

  “I’m clearing the wall.”

  They parted, Boone watching Damian go: the big blood-covered blonde charging across the wall with the axe in his hands like hell’s fireman rushing into the blaze. That or a berserk Norseman.

  Boone leaned over the wall, looking down into the bailey. Colson and Halstead were moving around on the ground, mopping up.

  He turned to the task at hand.

  The keep loomed before him, tall and inviting, the secrets of this place hidden inside.

  Transcript of intercepted call to:

  ABR Management.

  Yo. I know where your boy at.

  Excuse me?

  I said I know where your boy at.

  And this is?

  That ain’t what’s important. I’m sayin’, I know where your boy Busta at. Now let’s talk about a rewar—

  Hold on a minute. I’m transferring your call.

  Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.

  Hiya.

  Yeah, I was sayin’, I know where he—

  Where you calling from mate?

  I get to that in a minute. Ain’t you gonna ask me why I’m callin’?

  We know why you’re calling.

  Oh you do, huh?

  You have information that would be very valuable to us. About the whereabouts of our client. That’s it, innit?

  Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout. Yo, lemme ask—how come I ain’t seen this shit on the news?

  We’re trying to keep it low profile.

  Low profile gonna cost ya.

  Let’s talk wedge then.

  I don’t understand half of what you sayin’, but if it’s money we talkin’…

  It is.

  Then we’s in business.

  Good show, mate. Let’s discuss the particulars. />
  45.

  4:36 A.M. (CEST)

  The walkway circled the outside of the keep. A massive wooden door granted access to the forbidding tower. A soldier’s body had propped the door open. The Benelli shotgun leveled at his side, taut on its sling, Boone peered into the tower, seeing little. He glanced back the way he’d come and then up at the white parachute fluttering in the night sky from the top of the keep. Kane had landed up there. The Wrath of God.

  The door opened outward with a mighty creak. Boone stepped on the body of the downed soldier and into a narrow, spiraling stairwell. The flames of ensconced torches flickered, illuminating the stone walls and stairs. The electric lights were out, the generator blown. Boone listened and heard nothing except a burst of submachine gun fire from without.

  He ascended the stairs, 12-gauge at the ready, prepared to blast whatever might come down at him. The windows set in the stone wall were sealed with cement to reflect the needs of the recent tenants. Boone stayed close to the inner wall as the stairwell rose and turned, presenting less of a target to anyone above him.

  He came to a cluster of bodies strewn on the steps. Soldiers with various sword wounds, the stairs slick with their blood. One man sat against the wall, his eyes staring straight ahead of him, mouth open. He’d died holding his stomach in. H&K G36s lay scattered. Kane had come this way.

  After several more turns and corpses, the stairs gave to a second immense wooden door. Boone entered the bed chamber cautiously, scanning the room, taking it all in. More corpses scattered all over the place, draped over one another. A raised platform bed, its silk sheets and pillows blood drenched. Ornate candelabra complimented the modern electric lamps. Marble statuary decorated the room. The sole window’s wooden shutters were drawn back on the night, and as Boone looked an explosion briefly lit the sky outside.

  He turned his nose up at the coppery stench of blood in the room. There were so many bodies—one atop another, limbs entwined in the encroaching rictus of death—so many he couldn’t tell how many there were. Camouflaged limbs separate from their torsos. Turbans unraveled on the wooden floor. A katana locked in a severed hand.