“He’s holed up in a warehouse not far from here with about twenty of his friends,” he said.
Bull raised an eyebrow. “Twenty? Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Drake told him. “Now, about that floor–”
Bull held up a hand to stop him and shook his head. “I already said I can fix it. And if Barnaby thinks he can shut me down, he’s as stupid as he is mean.”
Despite the confident words, Drake could see the worry behind his eyes. “He won’t shut you down, Bull. But he’ll damn sure make you pay.”
Building codes existed, even here, and even though they were a joke. Inspections only ever came about when the sheriff was trying to extort money. Bull was right to be worried. The kind of materials needed to fix the floor were expensive, and from the look of the damage, it had reached the point where it was almost ready to give way completely. It would only take one customer who was sober enough to notice and hungry enough to risk reporting it to Barnaby. Once that happened, Bull would be in a world of trouble. Barnaby would bleed him dry.
“How much is the bottle?” Drake asked.
“I spent forty,” he said. “It’s worth twice that, though. The fellow I bought it from only had three. You want me to get you one?”
Drake took out his wallet and retrieved four notes worth twenty apiece. “You say it’s worth twice that?” He pushed the money across the bar. “I’ll take it.”
Bull stared down at the notes. Though it wasn’t quite enough to buy all the materials he would need, it was close. He opened his mouth to speak, then checked himself. Snatching the money up from the bar, he shoved it quickly into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”
Drake gave him a slight nod. That was the point. He didn’t really have money to throw around, but he needed Bull on his side. Men like him knew everything that went on in town. The last thing Drake wanted was to lose this resource to Barnaby. Of course, from the big guy’s perspective, Drake was just being a friend. However, in truth, Barnaby had been right: hawkers didn’t have friends.
Bull moved away to deal with one of the other patrons whose idea of calling for service was hitting the bar repeatedly with an empty mug. Left on his own, Drake refilled his glass and leaned back in the barstool.
Had his years of exile really made him this way? Hadn’t there been a time when he would have helped a man like Bull simply because it was the right thing to do? It would be nice to think so. However, the hard fact was that, during his days as a royal guard, he’d felt a mild revulsion for all those living in the provinces. He was no better than anyone else. Not then…and not now. Sure, he didn’t kill runners unless he had to. Yet even that was self-serving, and he hadn’t lost a minute of sleep over those that he had.
The door opened, and the silhouettes of two men appeared in the rush of bright sunlight. They paused on the threshold for a moment before stepping inside and then taking a seat on Drake’s left.
Both newcomers seemed to be in good physical condition. Though not as tall as Drake, they were broad shouldered and well fed – uncommon for bar patrons during the daylight hours. Most looked far more like the three hollow-eyed drunks on the other side of the bar.
The man nearest to Drake had deep copper-colored skin and a shaved head. The long jacket he wore was a touch too tight, allowing the bulge of the weapon he was carrying beneath to be clearly seen. The other was an older man, perhaps in his early fifties, with a hard expression and a long knife attached to his belt. Both of them nodded silently to Drake before ordering a beer.
He quickly ran his eyes over the pair while they drank, taking special note of the ring on the nearest man’s right index finger. It bore the circle and cross of the College of Mages. Though these were often counterfeited, this one looked to be of high quality. Which meant he was either a real mage, or had stolen it from one.
The older man wiped foam from his upper lip and glanced over to Drake. “Where you from, stranger?” he asked in a gravelly voice that perfectly suited his well-worn appearance.
His companion continued looking straight ahead, eyes fixed on the far wall.
“Up north,” replied Drake.
“Is that right? What brings you around here?”
“Why do you care?”
“Heard rumors that a hawker’s been sneaking about lately. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”
Drake’s senses sharpened. “None of your business.”
“No need to get riled, friend. We just thought you might need some help.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Oh, I don’t think you are.”
Drake shifted in his chair, pushing open his coat with his knee. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re after the wrong man. The guy you’re after is already dead.”
“And how would you know who I’m after?”
The man took a long drink and then slid the empty mug toward Bull. “Let's call it a hunch. The man you want died this morning. Saw it myself. Isn’t that right, Trem?”
His companion nodded but said nothing.
“You see? Trem never lies. Honest Trem is what we call him. So my advice is that you go back to your client and tell him he can stop looking. There’s nothing left to find.”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure you won’t mind telling me where the body is. Not everyone is as honest as your friend. My client will want proof.”
The man spread his hands. “What can I say? We burned the body, so there’s nothing left to bring back. Nothing but a pile of ashes, anyway…which I’d be more than happy to let you have.”
Drake shook his head. “That’s not good enough, I’m afraid.” His muscles twitched in anticipation.
The man took a deep breath and shook his head. “Too bad.” He reached into his pocket.
In a heartbeat, Drake kicked back the barstool and had the P37 in his hand. The heat in his chest throbbed with mana.
The man only smiled at him. He held up a five note. “Take it easy, friend. Don’t be so jumpy. We didn’t come here to fight. Just paying for our drinks is all.”
The mage had not moved an inch.
Bull was slowly making his way to the opposite end of the bar where Drake knew he kept a small handgun hidden. In response, the mage’s hands began to glow a pale blue.
“You don’t want to be doing that,” the mage’s companion called over to the big man. “You’re making Trem nervous.”
Bull stopped short, holding up his palms. “I don’t want any trouble in here.”
His remark drew a short laugh. “Trouble? From us? I’m not the one pointing a gun.” He placed the note down on the bar. “Do yourself a favor and let this go.”
Drake channeled more mana into his weapon. He could take them both out with one shot. Make sure the mage is down first.
“And in case you’re planning on actually using that thing, I’d think again if I were you, friend,” the man continued. “We’re not so stupid as to come here without backup.” He glanced over to Bull. “Keep the change.”
The mage gave Drake a sideways look, the hint of a grin on his face, and then rose from the stool. Drake felt a wave of rage threaten to overcome his self-discipline. He didn’t like mages. Never had. They always thought they were more powerful than they really were. Nothing but a bunch of arrogant bastards. One shot from his P37 would wipe that stupid grin off his face, permanently.
The duo strolled casually from the bar, as if totally unaware that the deadliest of weapons was pointing in their direction, primed and ready to blast them both to hell in an instant. The idea to do exactly this was greatly tempting, but Drake knew it would be a bad move. Without knowing where their back-up was and how they were armed, he was liable to find himself on the wrong end of things in a big hurry.
The three drunks were staring down at the bar, too afraid to look up.
Bull let out a heavy sigh. “So, you want to tell me what j
ust happened?”
Drake holstered his weapon and sat back down. “My runner sent me a message. That’s all.”
“Some message.”
“Yeah. Some message,” he agreed.
And one that made his decision a whole lot easier. Leaving dead bodies was never a good idea when you were a hawker. The magistrate’s office hated getting involved in such matters. Nonetheless, hawkers were granted certain rights. Anyone protecting a runner risked getting themselves quite legally killed.
Most hawkers in his current situation would probably have taken the warning, cut their losses, and left. On the other hand, most hawkers weren’t carrying a P37, nor had they been trained in the royal guard. Not that he would allow himself to become arrogant…not like that damned mage. In spite of his advantages, so many men was still an obstacle that couldn’t be taken lightly. One answer was to wait until they were gathered together and take them all out at once. But then he would be killing the runner as well. If it came right down to it, he would certainly take that option. But he wasn’t quite there yet.
He shoved the bottle across the bar. “Hang on to this for me, Bull.” The poor drunks on the other side were still gazing downwards, their hands trembling around their mugs. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a five note. “Buy them a few rounds, too.”
“Don’t you think you should wait here for a while?” Bull asked.
Drake shook his head. “They won’t be waiting on me. They think I’ll be too afraid to keep coming. That was the point.”
He might have lost the advantage of surprise, but they hadn’t recognized his weapon for what it was. A P37, especially in the hands of a man who knew how to use it, was more than they would be prepared to handle for long. After leaving the bar, he shielded his eyes from the sun and made a quick survey of the area. Satisfied, he got into Cal and fired the engine.
He needed to act soon. The runner might decide that the risk of remaining in Hilton Landing was too great. Drake had already chased the man through three provinces. If this went on for too much longer, the client might think to hire more hawkers. He certainly had the money to do so, and Drake had no intention of missing out on such a big payday. Tonight. That’s when this would end.
He drove to the boarding house at the edge of town where he had spent the past two nights. The room itself was as shabby as one would expect. Not that it mattered; he had stayed in far worse places. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he went over the layout of the warehouse in his mind. He would need to be silent and swift. Much as he didn’t want to kill more men than he had to, he could not see a way through this without spilling blood. And that led to a depressing notion.
“I guess that means dealing with Barnaby,” he grumbled.
He would be forced to spend the night in a cell. The magistrate would send someone along to investigate, just to be certain the deaths were legal. And while that was happening, there was no doubt in Drake's mind that Barnaby would be doing his level best to ensure his time inside was as uncomfortable as possible.
He shut his eyes. There was something unusual that had not occurred to him until now. The runner seemed to have a large number of loyal friends. Most runners were on their own. People were too afraid to help them. If on the rare occasion they did have someone, it was almost always a wife, brother, or parent – someone with a strong enough attachment that made them willing to risk their own life.
When he had tracked Brant Varish down, he had thought perhaps his friends didn’t know he was a runner. But after the incident at Lucky’s, that was clearly not the case. They knew, well enough. And they chose to help anyway. Their funeral.
The sidewalks were empty and only a few vehicles were passing by when Drake finally left the room just after midnight. The approach would be difficult; he already knew that. The warehouse had no upper level and only one small door set off from the main loading bay.
After parking Cal behind a crumbling building two blocks away, he waited until certain no one was about before climbing out. Street lamps were scarce in a town like this, so it was simple to stay in the shadows. A few voices carried on the chill night air, mostly drunks and late night brawls between the few residents in the surrounding apartment buildings.
He ducked through an alley midway down the first block, then stopped upon reaching the corner. Directly across the street, the warehouse windows were lit, and two men were sitting in chairs just outside the front door. Each had a rifle propped up against the wall beside him. Drake crouched low and listened carefully.
The men were talking quietly, but he could hear nothing coming from inside. Unable to get a look at the interior layout for himself, he had only scraps of information picked up from a few of the locals to work with. From what he’d gathered, just inside would be a large open area with a number of rooms at the rear. This was probably where the men he had seen with the runner earlier that day were housed. If he hadn’t acted so stupidly with Barnaby, he could have paid the sheriff for accurate information and been certain about this. Now, it was out of the question.
Drawing his P37, he focused mana into the chamber and emerged from the alley, his weapon held unobtrusively close to his hip. Both men stood and picked up their rifles as he approached, though neither weapon was raised in a threatening manner. They had obviously not spotted the P37.
“You lost, friend?” said the man on his right.
“Actually, yes,” he replied, smiling. “Do you know where Lucky’s Bar is?”
“That hole in the wall?” He pointed over to the left. “You go down about –”
That was as far as he got before Drake’s arm shot up. Two balls of green light flew from the P37's barrel, each one striking its target in the middle of the chest. The men instantly froze in place, their limbs rigid and eyes wide with shock. Drake fired twice more, and they crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He winced as their rifles clattered noisily on the pavement, but no sound of alarm came from inside.
Quickly, he removed four leather straps from his coat pocket and bound the men’s hands and feet. These two were fortunate to have been outside. He doubted he would be able to simply immobilize the rest. They would surely fight. And they would surely die.
Foolishly, the door had been left unlocked. Drake pushed it open just enough to see that the large area beyond was empty. A few chairs were scattered about, and the floor was covered in broken bottles and wadded paper – likely the aftermath of the earlier party. A few crates were stacked up along the far left wall, with a solitary hand truck parked beside them. Not much cover if things became hot. Given that these men were selling black market goods, he’d been hoping there would be more places than this to hide.
Drake could see three doors about fifty feet to the rear of the building. Slipping fully inside, he skirted the wall on his right, careful not to step on any of the broken glass and debris. Once in the corner, he released two carefully placed shots from the P37, each of which deposited a small white light just in front of the two farthest doors. These pulsed for several seconds before fading away completely. Continuing on, he approached the third door and pressed an ear to its surface. The sound of a vibraplayer crackling out some old tune was all he could hear.
He tried the knob. Locked. Quickly, Drake pulled a small knife from his belt and slid it between the door and the frame. The scraping of his blade on the latch was loud enough to draw the attention of anyone who might be close by. As it was, though, the door opened and apparently no one had heard him. Beyond was a narrow corridor with doorways lining the left hand wall at regular intervals, and the grunts and snores of sleeping men rose above the music.
He peeked inside the first door. Two men were splayed out on cots, one of them gripping a half-empty bottle. The next three rooms revealed more of the same – passed out men who were far too drunk to hear him coming and going. But none was the man he wanted.
There was no exit at the end of the hallway. Drake shook his head. To have found the runner passed out or sleepin
g in one of the first rooms he searched would have been too much to hope for, he supposed. There was a plus side, though – so far, at least, it was looking as if he might have a chance of making it out of here with little or no resistance.
This thought was in his mind when he heard a loud crack and a series of sharp pops.
“Damn it,” he hissed. Someone had triggered one of the traps.
As fast as he could manage with stealth, he returned to the entrance. On the floor by the middle door lay a man wearing nothing but a pair of short pants and worn shoes. Sparks of mana surrounded him as his body jerked and twisted. Drake fired a shot into his leg and he became limp.
Another man in blue coveralls staggered out of the same door. “You pass out?” he slurred drunkenly. He kicked the unconscious man in the leg. “Get the hell up.”
Drake fired his P37 just as the man looked over. The shot struck him in the collarbone, and he staggered back and let out a yelp before crashing to the floor.
“Help!” he shouted. “Someone!”
Cursing under his breath, Drake fired again, this time silencing him. But the damage was already done. He could hear people stirring behind him and from down the hallway where the trap had been sprung.
He burst into a dead run for the far corner. Behind him, he heard the second trap being triggered. Sliding on his knees, he spun to face the new attackers. Three men came rushing out from the door on his far left, two with small handguns, the other clutching a rifle. The heat in Drake's chest increased as he let fly a powerful burst. A fist-sized globe of blue energy shot out, exploding just before reaching the first target. As intended, the sheer force of the blast sent all three flying back down the hallway from where they had just emerged.
From the middle door, the mage called Trem he had encountered at Lucky’s came dashing out, ducking low and hands glowing red. Drake hoped he was the only one of his kind. If not, things could get a sight more dangerous than he’d anticipated. The mage was searching for the source of the attack. Drake grinned as he took aim and pulled the trigger. A stream of white light struck Trem in the neck and then wrapped itself around his throat like a collar.
The Runner (From the World of The Vale) Page 2
