by Matt Hilton
Rink lifted a boot and smashed open the door. Immediately he blasted the interior of the room before swinging back out of sight. Two seconds of carnage were all I required to insert a full clip of ammo. Exchanging positions with choreographed precision, I opened up, firing off bullets as quickly as I could squeeze the trigger. Then I was in the room and had moved left as Rink let off another full load of pellets.
Armed confrontations do not resemble John Woo's battles of balletic gunplay; any somersaulting or leaping through space discharging bullets is reserved for the movies. Reality is not so pretty. I slammed my back to a wall, my gun out before me, and emptied it at every target that moved. I was shouting something that was unintelligible even to me. An animal shout of loathing, fear, and unrestrained rage.
It took all of a few seconds to deplete my gun of bullets, yet I felt as spent as the bullet casings littering the floor at my feet.
Rink hustled into the room, the stock of his shotgun to his shoulder as he sought targets. Smoke hung in the air. So did the unmistakable tang of blood. One man was huddled in a corner of the room, hands over his head as he sobbed in terror. Another was sprawled over a coffee table, a hole the size of a baby's fist in his shoulder. The man murmured, delirious in his agony.
That accounted for two of them, but I couldn't see where the other two were. As Rink covered the cowering man, I ejected my empty clip and inserted a fresh one. Rink moved over to the open window. Sounds of flight ricocheted from the fire escape beyond.
"Careful," I said. Both to Rink and as a warning to the man who cringed away from the business end of my SIG. Rink gave me a wry grin as he approached the window.
"Like rats down a drainpipe," he observed. "Two of them are running for it."
"Let them run," I said. The cowering man peeked up at me through tears and smeared snot. I nudged him with a boot. "Where's John Telfer?"
In those old Poe books, victims of terror often gave out a keening wail. I'd never heard one for real and couldn't imagine what one sounded like. Until now.
I nudged him harder. "I said, 'Where's Telfer?' I won't ask again."
He must have read something in my face. Maybe my hesitancy to kill in cold blood. Whatever it was, his demeanor suddenly changed. "Go to hell, asshole."
"So now you're the brave guy?" I put the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead. "You don't think I'll do it? Try me."
As suddenly, he was wailing again.
"Where's Telfer?" I asked.
"I don't know who you mean. Speak to Petoskey, man. Not us. For God's sake . . . don't kill me."
I took the gun from his skull. There was a scarlet ring where the hot metal had pressed into his flesh. "Second question, and the rules haven't changed. Where's Petoskey?"
He wanted to resist. Perhaps it was bravado, but more likely it was fear of his boss that held his tongue. Back went the gun.
"Where's Petoskey?"
Fear of a bullet in the skull now or perhaps one later from Petoskey if he survived; I could see the math going around in his head. It was a simple equation.
He nodded upward, eyes on the ceiling above.
"He's upstairs?" I asked.
The man nodded again.
"How many with him?"
"How the hell should I know?" the man spluttered.
"Guess," I said.
"Three, four . . . I don't know. Could be as many as a dozen for all I know!"
"Armed?"
"What do you think?"
It was a stupid question.
"Yes. It's the end of the line, buddy," I said. Then I slammed the butt of my gun against his temple, sprawling him sideways across the floor.
"Maybe you should plug him and be done with it," Rink said from behind me.
Was that really my friend speaking?
"Can't do it."
"I know it's not right, but it makes more sense. We don't want to be going up there, leaving one of them behind us. Not when he's armed."
"You're right. But I'm not a murderer."
Rink's gaze sought the man with the new open-vent shoulder.
"He'll survive. Anyway, that was different," I said. "He was trying to kill me. But I won't kill a man in cold blood."
Rink winked at me, his stern face softening. "Just checking, my old friend," he said. "Like I said last night, we don't have a license to kill no more."
"I hear you," I told him. And I meant it. But we still had a job to do, and it was my firm guess that others would die this night. My only hope was that it wouldn't be either of us.
16
there he was. The thief. Purloiner of second-favorite knives and sports utility vehicles. He was just as Tubal Cain remembered him, though subtly altered, he had to admit. A handsome enough bloke as thieves go. Aged in his early thirties. He was dressed the way a million other guys were, in nondescript casual clothing with a ball cap down to his ears. The sum of his possessions in a knapsack slung from one shoulder. It was the same knapsack he'd carried when he carjacked Cain yesterday. Mirrorlensed sunglasses concealed his eyes.
In essence, the thief was very similar to Cain, Mr. Normal blending in with his surroundings. The thought had occurred already, but now, watching the man who'd signed his name in the hotel's register as David Ambrose, Cain came to a conclusion. "You're hiding your true identity as carefully as I am. Why is that?"
One thing was for sure, Ambrose wasn't hiding from Cain. He had no way of knowing that Cain would hunt him down. In his mind, Cain had been nothing but a hopeless freak he'd left out in the middle of nowhere.
"I'll tell you why. It means that you are afraid of someone else."
Cain leaned back in the driver's seat of the Oldsmobile, chewing his lower lip. Now this was an unexpected turn of events.
"Who are you running from, Mr. So-Called-Ambrose?" he whispered as he watched Ambrose approach the SUV. "Who is it that frightens you more than Tubal Cain?"
Ambrose gave off a vibe. An electrostatic buzz of anticipation. Almost as if he were steeling himself for a sniper's bullet between the shoulder blades. It was the subconscious way he moved, trying his damndest to appear nonchalant, yet at the same time with a posture as taut as piano wire. He could pretend not to, but Cain knew that behind the mirrors of his shades, Ambrose glanced around, alert as a mouse in a rattlesnake's den. Turning, the sunlight and dappled shadows of palms played across his glasses. Cain thought of a beetle's eyes.
The insectlike gaze skimmed over the Oldsmobile, pausing for less than a heartbeat before passing on. There was a momentary pinching of the thief's lips as he scanned the car, but the strained expression was gone in the next instant. No, it was merely an unconscious reaction, not recognition. In the shadows of his parking spot, Cain felt protected from the amateur who'd made too many mistakes.
Approaching the SUV, Ambrose dug for keys in a trouser pocket. Unhitching the knapsack from his shoulder, he unlocked the driver's door and slung the bag onto the passenger seat. Another glance around gave Cain the impression of one of those hopeless spies that Napoleon Solo—and that guy with the Russian-sounding name that Cain could never recall, let alone pronounce—used to thwart every week in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
Cain saw the headlights flick on. The engine coughed to life like a grizzly stirring from hibernation. The SUV barely rolled forward a couple of yards before braking violently. Ambrose had forgotten all about subtlety and blending in, if the way he stomped to the back of the vehicle was anything to go by.
"Gotcha," Cain said.
Ambrose crouched down by the flat tire, running his hands over it as though he could magically restore it by touch alone. Unfortunately, he was no sorcerer. Defeated, he stood up with his hands on his hips, and even heard from across the parking lot his language was choice.
It would be so simple to come up behind Ambrose while he was distracted. Push the point of his scaling knife into the juncture of his neck and clavicle. Dig down for the vital organs in one rapturous moment. End him right there
and then. At his leisure, Cain could search the dead man's possessions and regain that which belonged to him.
"Yes, that's as it could be."
That was exactly as his plan had gone. By now it was hours later, his discussion with the dippy receptionist wouldn't be connected to an apparent mugging gone wrong. Cain could go merrily on his way, his sense of justice appeased.
"But, thief, that isn't how it's going to be."
The enigma of Ambrose's true identity, and what it was—who it was—he was hiding from, was enough to give pause to anyone with an inquiring mind. And don't let it be said that Tubal Cain was not a deep thinker. Yes, his needs might be basic, but he thought long on the ways of fulfilling those needs.
His curiosity was more than piqued. It was on turbodrive. He wanted to let this play out a little longer. "Who knows, thief," he decided, "it might make for an interesting conclusion."
17
events overtook our plan way too quickly for my liking. Not that I was surprised; isn't that always the way plans go? That's always been the flaw with our tactics. Murphy's Law strikes again.
It was no longer a case of a one-two move, but a full headlong charge for the top.
The man I'd knocked unconscious didn't give me enough to make a considered judgment. There could be as few as three men with Petoskey or as many as a dozen. Think the worst, and anything else is a bonus.
It was a full balls-to-the-wall assault.
We headed for the upper floor with our guns blasting. The intent wasn't to shoot anyone per se, but to cause as much confusion as possible. Petoskey was a rat, and everyone knows what rats do on a sinking ship. I ruled out the fire escape at this corner of the building, guessing that Petoskey would head for the one we'd used to gain access.
"I'm going back across, cut off any escape route," I told Rink. "You okay with that?"
He racked the pump action. "As long as I've got ammo, I'll give 'em hell."
"When the shooting stops, I want you to come up and join me as quickly as you can."
"Damn, and here was me thinking it was time for a coffee break."
"After we're done I'll buy you coffee and doughnuts."
"Make 'em jelly doughnuts and you've got a deal."
"Sounds good to me."
Another volley of fire gained the attention of those on the populated side. I backtracked across the building.
Speed was an issue. Call me cautious, but I made my way through the building as though every nook hid an assassin. Better a minute late than thirty years too early at the pearly gates.
The remains of the door Rink had blasted were like an open mouth full of jagged teeth. The room beyond exuded the stench of battle like sour breath. Apart from the stink, the room was now empty. The unconscious man had obviously come to, and he wasn't as ill informed about our chances as he was making out. At least he'd had the sense to get the hell away from the shitstorm raging above. The man who had taken a bullet in the shoulder was gone, too. A smear of blood on the window ledge confirmed their escape route.
Happy that no one would come on me from behind, I ran along the corridor. Behind me, the boom of Rink's shotgun resonated as he unloaded it toward the upper floor.
I headed upward on the other staircase. Natural functions sometimes take a backseat when adrenaline shrieks through your veins; I took the full flight of stairs before I remembered to breathe. At the top I paused to exhale, sucked in air, then stepped out into a corridor much shorter than the one I'd passed through below.
A little over thirty feet away, the corridor had been blocked. What appeared to be a new metal door had been installed. It reverberated under the ring of urgent voices from beyond. A background accom paniment of baying dogs and shotgun blasts confirmed that I'd found Petoskey's hideout.
Cursory inspection of the metal door told me it was a no-go. There was no handle on this side, no keyhole. The soldier in me said it would be almost impregnable to anything short of heavy artillery. Abandoning the door, I stepped into the office on my left. There was the usual jumble of wrecked furniture and scattered documents.
I made my way to the wall and put an ear to it. I was quite sure that all the action was at the far end, and the possibility of getting hot lead in my ear was pretty slim.
The wall was made of Sheetrock, and by the swollen roar of activity beyond it I could tell it wasn't as heavily fortified as the door. I crouched down and took the KA-BAR from my boot.
It took less than a minute to cut away a torso-sized portion of the wall. Beyond was a second layer of the same substance. Why the Americans called this brittle stuff Sheetrock always amused me. Using only the tip of my knife, I bored a small circle in the plaster and peered into Petoskey's hideout.
As if on cue, Rink stopped firing. Makes me wonder if the link we share exceeds mere intuition and laps at the shore of the preternatural. Then again, he may have been reloading his shotgun. Whatever, the lull in activity was just what I needed.
Through my peephole, I could see an open room that ran the breadth of the building. A group of men gathered by a second doorway at the far end had to be the hired guns. Their attention was on the stairwell below them. Two more men held pit bull terriers on leashes. The dogs were blood-soaked and torn in a number of places. Unconcerned by the madness of humans, they strained at their leashes to continue their own private war. That meant that the final three men standing by a jerry-built arena in the center of the floor were the highfliers. One of them had to be Sigmund Petoskey.
Okay, quick calculation and what did I have?
Ten men in total.
Two dogs.
It wasn't the most difficult summation.
The real question was: Could I handle them all?
Whether or not I was capable wasn't an issue. I was going to, and that was it.
18
when i was a small child, i lived in a home poor in money but rich in love. What my parents were unable to provide in fine food and modern conveniences, they made up for with hugs and kisses and quality time spent with their only child. I don't miss having little in the way of material belongings, but I do miss my dad.
After my dad died and my mother remarried, things changed. I still didn't possess the treasures children yearn for, but I did get a little brother. But then it was my brother who got more of the hugs and kisses. And I looked elsewhere for comfort.
My father instilled in me a love of books. Where other kids got stereo record players and portable TVs in their bedrooms, I had a collection of dog-eared novels passed down to me by my dad. Poe, Lovecraft, and R. E. Howard were my favorites. Next in line came the comic book superheroes that I grew into when a newspaper delivery route gave me the pocket money to spend on treats. Sometimes I wonder if the books taught me about the horrors of our world, while the superheroes taught me how to deal with them. Whatever, they did give me a fertile imagination.
Probably explained why I envisioned myself as the Incredible Hulk when I erupted through the wall. The Hulk had an extraordinary strength he used against his enemies, but I didn't have that luxury. I came out shooting in a spray of dust and plaster particles.
I didn't aim to hit anyone and fired above their heads. Combined with my Hulk act, it was enough to startle everyone into immobility. Only the dogs responded with panic, circling and ensnaring their handlers with their leashes as they spun.
"No one move or the next bullet will kill you," I shouted. In reality, if all of them had turned on me at once, I wouldn't have stood a chance. The thing was, without exception, everyone thought I was shouting directly at him. No one wants to be a dead hero.
"Guns on the floor," I shouted as I took a half-dozen paces into the room. The three men nearest me weren't armed. They thrust their hands toward the ceiling.
The dog handlers were too busy trying to untangle themselves to pay me immediate attention. Stuck between me and Rink, who approached the opposite door at a gallop, the five guards at the far end quickly dropped their weapons and kicke
d them away.
"Inside the room, boys," I heard Rink shout. His voice jostled them like bowling pins.
My unorthodox entrance, not to mention the demanding muzzle of my SIG, commanded compliance. The three men by the fighting arena moved quickly toward the plastic-shrouded wall, their hands seeking heaven.
A shadow in the doorway morphed into Rink. It was good to see the big guy again. He shot me a wink as he ushered the five goons before him.
"Get your butts in the ring and sit on your hands," Rink told them. They crowded into the center of the fighting area. Space was at a premium as they jostled to be farthest away from the 12-gauge. Rink turned to the two dog handlers. "You, too."
