He pulled his trigger a microsecond after I did.
The big difference was where we were each aiming. I hadn’t lived through what I had, from Afghanistan to the Enders’ last stand, by playing the short game. Simply put, Richter had been going for a headshot while I, at the last moment, dropped onto my elbows as I shot … and shot and shot.
Sure, my aim was a bit off, but volume and proximity made up for a lot.
Richter’s bullet flew over my head, missing me by millimeters. While my first bullet blew out his right thigh and the second burrowed into his Kevlar, the last, carried upward by recoil, turned his neck into a bloody mess. Blood fountained across the space between us as the kid’s eyes opened wide in shock. His pistol slipped from his hand as he reached up toward his ruined throat, still not quite believing what had just happened.
I ignored him as he flopped onto his side. Instead, I picked myself up and wiped the golden crust of coagulating blood from my nose and lips with the back of one hand.
“You didn’t deserve this, kid.” I leaned over Richter’s convulsing form and sighed. “Sorry.” His eyes emptied as I said the word, and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there looking at him.
I got up to go. Before stopping myself, I bent back down and reached out to close his dead eyes. This had to end, all the bullshit. I was getting awful sick of killing people and worrying about every loved one in my life.
The only upside to any of this was the medical kit hanging off Richter’s web belt, the contents full to the brim with magic. Maybe this wouldn’t all have been for nothing; maybe I’d save at least one of these crazy kids. Christ, what the hell was Mom thinking about the gang war going down in her living room? Even if she wouldn’t admit it, she must be scared out of her gourd.
The urge to go to her was nearly overwhelming, but for the moment, she seemed safe enough. Molly on the other hand wasn’t. I snapped off the med-kit, careful not to let my anti-magic fingers get tangled in anything, and rushed over to where Molly sat. Thankfully, she was still breathing. Maybe Richter’s death wouldn’t be a total loss.
14
Molly was still slumped against the wall, another crimson puddle spread across the shag carpeting beneath her. While the puddle wasn’t spreading as fast as it should have been, I wasn’t sure if that was because of her drunken Irish magic or that she lacked enough blood to pump out of the nasty chest wound. I wasn’t going to take a chance either way.
Despite my desire to move quickly, I tried to keep all the first aid tips and tricks they taught us in Basic in mind. As gently as I was able, I took her by the back and neck and transitioned her slowly to the carpet. It would have been quite the shitter to have stopped the bleeding only to have jerked an injured neck around and killed her that way.
Next I unzipped Richter’s trauma kit and upended the contents onto the floor. While that seems a bit stupid, every second I spent fiddling with the magic shit, the stuff I really needed to work if I wanted to save Molly, increased the odds I might unwittingly catch a thread and tear the magic loose. It was why the White hadn’t given me enchanted gear before, so I wasn’t going to tempt fate now.
As I looked over the assortment of medicinal goodies, I let out a low whistle. I’ll grant the White this much. They knew how to make first aid supplies with the average soldier in mind. No fancy mumbo-jumbo, no crumbling scrolls, and no ancient languages Man Was Not Meant To Know.
It was stupidly straight forward, from the weird powder labeled “Wound Care” to the bubbling liquid in a needle marked “Trauma Stabilizer.” Granted, I had no clue what it would actually do, or if it would work after I touched it, but it was a start.
Using a splinter of support beam Richter’s spell had blasted away, I poked and prodded through the pile, sorting what would be useful or applicable from the pointless. There wasn’t time to wonder what the hell the purpose of the “Wyvern Sting Dissolver” was or why it belonged in a med-kit.
Sweat rolled down my face from pure stress as the seconds ticked by. Molly’s breathing was so shallow, I couldn’t even tell if the Irish waif was still with me, but fuck it all, I was going to try. The obvious first step was the “Trauma Stabilizer” needle, so I snatched it up and jammed it into her arm.
Her entire body tensed like someone had run a million volts through her. I backed the fuck off in case she spasmed worse, but as I did, the seizure passed and she collapsed against the plush carpet. I couldn’t see any wounds sealing up, though it’d be hard to tell through all the blood. I thought that maybe, just maybe, her breathing seemed to even out and her muscles and posture were more relaxed.
Well, Molly wasn’t dead yet, so I pressed on. My last three medicines of choice were the Wound Care powder, a small tin of blood-red pills labelled “Fluid Restorative,” and a thin strip of silvery metal embossed with “Hemorrhage Suppressant – Internal, Insert Into Incision/Wound Before Sealing.” The order seemed obvious enough. I just hoped I didn’t fuck anything up.
With a deep breath and a quick prayer to the Big Man Upstairs, I slid the metal strip into Molly’s sucking chest wound. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever played home surgeon before, but there’s no experience quite like rooting around in the flesh of another human being. Strangely glad I had done this enough times not to go instantly to barf-mode, I still got out of there as soon as possible, especially when I felt a tingly fizz from the strip.
Confident that it was doing something, I grabbed the tube of white powder and sprinkled it liberally on every open wound I could find, starting with the big nasty puncture. Goddamn, the girl was more cut up than a cow at the butcher’s shop. I ran out of the stuff before I had gotten to every gash or burn or scrape, but I covered all the big ones. I don’t know what it is with magical medicine and fizzing, but this powder did the same thing, bubbling and fizzing like Alka-Seltzer the moment it touched wounded flesh. The shit worked though, almost as well as the Holy Grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
Feeling pretty confident in the situation now, I supplemented all the magical hoo-hah with a round of good old-fashioned bandaging. Best to be safe, ya know?
A dose of Fluid Restoratives later, which I worked gently down the girl’s throat, and things were as good as they could be. It wasn’t great, but there wasn’t any more blood spilling out of her body, and she seemed to be resting peacefully enough.
From there, I methodically tore apart every bit of magic I could find in the place, just in case there were any lingering tracing spells or hidden surprises, while gathering up every working firearm from the casualties I could fit into one of Mom’s shopping bags, a nice floral print deal in canvas. Sturdy and reliable!
Taking down the arcane lock Molly had set into place was easy as pie. The real test though was about to come as I put my hand on the door. I loosened up and got ready for the shitstorm that was about to go down. You might be thinking that this would be no problem, that Mom would calm down the second she heard my voice through the door. Well, you haven’t ever seen Betty Butcher truly riled up.
“Mom, it’s me,” I yelled, head against the door. “It’s Frank! I’m here to rescue you.”
Dead silence. That likely meant Mom had something painful and ceramic, something she had in large supply in her bedroom full of knick-knacks, ready to throw at her perceived attackers. Mom was real cagey, sometimes so cagey she outthought herself. Hell, she no doubt thought this was an elaborate ruse, even if it made no damned sense.
I weighed my options, which only really came down to opening the door and prepare to duck thrown objects. “Okay, Mom, I’m coming in!”
I threw open the door and stepped in. Despite my efforts at defense, I failed to duck the little glazed elephant statuette that collided with my temple.
“Jesus Fucking H. Christ, Mom!” I ducked against the wall, shielding my face and head from more brutality. “It’s me! It’s Frank!”
A crystal unicorn shattered on my forearms next. “I raised my Frankie to no
t take the Lord’s name in vain, you dirty asshole you!”
Even though it might hurt, I dropped my guard. She was in total hysterics, and I could only hope the sight of my face would snap her out of it. After all, magic might be able to do many things, but it would be hard pressed to duplicate my mighty chin. “For fuck’s sake, Mom, look! It really is me!”
Mom had collected an arsenal of lethal sculptures and ornaments on the bright pink bed and was leaning against it. The bed was her brace, letting her get in a good throw without having to rely on her cane. Thankfully, she looked unhurt save for her beet-red face under the enormous beehive hair-do, but that was likely entirely from having worked herself into a frenzy.
“Frank?” Her eyes squinted hard as she started to calm. “That really is you, hun, isn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes and dabbed at the golden blood on my forehead. “Yeah, Mom, I only said it like three times.” As her expression softened, my own anger at my crazy mom evaporated as well. “Christ, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Okay? You’ve got a stupid notion of what okay is,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. You can see where I get it from, right? “But still, I’m really happy to see you, Frankie.” She looked around a bit sheepishly now. “What the hell is going on?”
I was by her side in a few strides. “There’s no time, Mom. We’ve got to book it.” There was no time for subtlety. I let my eyes go gold right there as I stripped the spells off her. No tracking Momma Butcher for these assholes again.
“Son, I –” I didn’t know if Mom was going to go into apology mode or start up a Q and A session, but both would waste valuable time. After she was safe, she could ask me anything she wanted.
I cut her off with a hug. “We’ll talk when we get out of here.” I pulled back a space, as much due to her cloying “Pink Passion” perfume as anything. “Now, there’s a lot of blood and mess in the next room, so I want you to close your eyes and hold my hand.”
Though Mom wasn’t quick to agree (I think she wanted to assess the damage to her apartment and stomp on whoever did said damage), she was surprisingly dutiful in keeping her peepers clamped shut and her hand in mind, even when I had to take a moment to scoop up Molly. Thankfully, she was as light as she looked, even with the extra twenty-some-odd pounds of armor and gear.
Thankfully, the trip down to Mom’s van was easy enough. That was good, it didn’t take a genius to understand we had a small window of time before the White would be on our asses like white on rice.
15
Mom’s mini-van was about as pink as the Pink Ladies’ jackets from Grease, but it was a million times better than being in the bloodbath we had left behind.
She was in a daze, a bit of shell shock, but Mom glared daggers at me as I was about to put Molly down into the backseat, still covered in blood. “Dammit, Frankie, I just cleaned the upholstery! You get a drop of blood in there, a drop, and I swear you’re not too big to go over my knee!”
I took Mom at face value. I don’t care what state she was in, she would have no problem beating me from stem to stern. "Okay, Mom, okay. I’ll think of something!"
It took some doing and some assistance from a plastic tarp, but I managed not to get any blood on the van floor.
Betty Butcher was a tough lady. She had to be. After all, she raised two rowdy boys up from the streets of New York to sunny San Diego on her own. There were limits to that grit though, and I figured she was close to said limit.
It’s not every day you get held hostage by a bunch of magic-using military-grade goons, only to be rescued by your son and then escorted through a scene that could be best described as Michael Meyer’s Greatest Hits.
“I can’t believe all this, Frankie,” she mumbled, shaking her head from the passenger’s seat. Yeah, I wasn’t going to ask her to drive when she was in this state, even if I’d have preferred to keep an eye on Molly who lay across the backseat. “I mean, you told me everything, but sweet Mary, who’d have thought it was true?”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I tried to sound comforting, like this was a typical day in Frank Butcher’s world, but I doubted I was doing a great job. I felt guilty as hell for putting Mom in the danger zone and it likely showed. “I’m taking you someplace safe. Then I’m going to take care of things so you don’t have to worry about this again.”
“Oh, hon, you can’t bullshit your dear old mother.” Mom absently touched at her beehive hair and glanced out the window as the buildings whizzed by. I was taking us to the only place I figured I’d find Gabriela. Hopefully she’d be able to help. “These guys, look at what they’re willin’ to do. Ain’t no way they’re not goin’ to keep comin’ after you and me, son.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel hard. As much as I found it hard to argue with her, I had to say something, even if she could always see through my bullshit. “I’ve beaten guys like this before, Mom. I was telling the whole truth before. It can be done.”
I could feel her eyes on me again, but I tried to focus on the road. “Yeah and if I recall correctly, the creeps tryin’ to kill you now had your back. You’re not freakin’ Robocop or Superman or whatever it is you kids think is cool these days.”
“Superman is always cool.” I sighed and nodded. “I know that, but what choice have I got? They’re going to kill a kid, and they sure as hell want to kill me too. Even if I was able to let them kill Max, which I’m not, I sure as hell am not going to roll over and let them kill me.”
“Christ, son, don’t patronize me. You may not like seeing kids getting hurt, but it’s more about that sweet doctor lady than her kid.” She poked me in the shoulder with a sharp finger. “Now there ain’t a damned thing wrong with that, let me tell you. You need to be honest about it though, especially to your Momma.”
“Really, is that where we’re going to go?” I directed the van onto the onramp to San Diego proper, sending an overwhelming waft of the “Passionate Petunia” car deodorizer right up my nose.
“Don’t you sass me, Frankie. I’m about on the edge of a breakdown as it is, what with all those dead people in my living room!” The poking finger turned into a hand on my shoulder. Risking a glance at Mom, I could see worry in her eyes. “I know you’ve gotta do this, but it sure doesn’t mean I gotta like it. This is worse than when you and Bobby went hopping off to the Army and Afghanistan. You boys thought that was the right thing to do then too.”
I knew this was going to go this way. As much as I hated it, I couldn’t blame her either. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault, ya know? I don’t think Bobby’d ever have enlisted if I hadn’t prodded him into it.”
We had both gone overseas and I was the only one to come back. While I didn’t dwell on it anymore (hell, how could I get by if I did?), I still felt responsible for Bobby’s death. That truth haunted me, and part of me worried that as soon as it stopped bothering me, I’d forget him entirely. That was never going to happen.
My introspection was stopped hard by a sharp rap upside my head from Mom’s cane. Fortunately, I didn’t send us spinning off the road or swerving into a terrible head-on collision. “Cut that out this minute, or I’ll put you over my knee! You ain’t too big to get a whuppin’ now.”
“Mom, I’m driving–”
“You listen to your Momma now and you listen good, Goddammit!” I shut my trap. I may not respect authority, but I respected Mom. Also, another couple of whaps might very well get us killed. “Your brother did what he wanted to do, and you ain’t got a thing to feel guilty about! I didn’t raise you boys to be a bunch of second-guessing, timid sticks-in-the-mud.”
“Yes, Mom.” Arguing with Betty Butcher was like standing down a tornado. You weren’t going to win.
That seemed to satisfy her, and she settled back into her seat. “So who’s the little lady in the backseat? Ya know she’s one of those fuckers who locked me up, right?”
I nodded slowly. Though Mom had taught me how to curse as well as I do, it always was a bit jarring whenever she dr
opped an F-bomb. You’d think I’d be used to it by now! “That’s Molly.” God, did I really not know her last name? I hadn’t even thought to ask. Typical Frank. “You remember her from my story, right?”
Mom nodded before I continued. “Well, she had a change of heart after they swiped you. She, uh, took care of all those guys in your apartment before I got there.” I frowned a bit. “Most of ‘em anyway.”
She glanced back at Molly, who was breathing slowly and still unconscious, before shooting me a sly smirk. “She ain’t half bad lookin’. Looks like your type.”
“Mom, Jesus,” I cried to the heavens as we slipped through traffic, “not every pretty lady I talk about is someone I’ve got an eye for.”
Mom laughed as if this were the funniest thing in the world. Hell, after what we had been through, maybe it was. “You ain’t sayin’ no, Frankie.”
I was going to throw up another flurry of flak and denial, but what good would that do? Mom was convinced and nothing short of a bomb was going to change her mind.
“Whatever you say, Mom.”
Either way, I wasn’t going to worry about Molly right then. There were much bigger fish to fry. Like what I was going to say or do when we got where we were going.
As I said, there’s only one place Gabriela would go to get the resources she would need to save Max. I was taking Mom, Molly, and me to the Pendleton Building, one of the big Ender enclaves and the only one I knew about outside of the now-defunct Drakos corporate headquarters.
It was like asking for help from the dog you’d just kicked because the cat had put you up to it. Gabby and I had busted in there to look for Max not too long ago, and we hadn’t exactly made friends there. At the same time, the doc had obvious history with Tabitha Marlowe, the director of the building, and from what I could gather, it wasn’t all bad. Tabitha had even seemed a bit sympathetic to our cause before she got overruled by her big boss. If she was still alive, she’d help Gabriela and maybe she would help me too.
Feet of Clay: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Clans of Shadow Book 2) Page 10
