by Tom Dublin
Grimacing with pain, Phisk nodded his compliance.
"Good," snarled Barber. "Now move!"
Sergeant Randy Barber paused just long enough to shove Thavo Domp's corpse over the edge of the roof as commanded before marching his fellow hostage back toward the open fire exit.
They had just reached the staircase when they heard a muffled splat, followed by the nauseated cries and screams of those gathered below.
Had either of the men glanced into the shadows to their right as they hurried back across the casino floor to rejoin the rest of the group, they might have just been able to make out Jack and Tc'aarlat watching them pass from the darkness.
20
Moon of Hann, Outside The Blue Diamond Casino
Chief Bis Pargo stared unblinking at the body of Thavo Domp on the sidewalk across the street.
He hadn't noticed the skirmish on the roof that had led to the establishment's owner going over the edge, but he’d been looking directly at the locked doors of The Blue Diamond Casino when Domp had hit the ground right in front of them.
He'd seen the body burst on impact.
Domp striking the ground had sounded like a side of meat being slapped onto the counter by a careless butcher.
Despite standing on the opposite side of the road, he'd felt some kind of wet, warm fluid spray his face.
What the fluid was he didn't know, nor did he want to. Blood? Bile? Urine? He didn't want to wipe it away, since that would mean acknowledging what he had just witnessed had really happened. And Bis Pargo didn't know if he'd be able to deal with that certainty.
He continued to stare at the corpse—now oozing a rainbow of differently-colored liquids that merged together into a single slowly-spreading brown puddle. Lake began to dab away the spots of wetness from his forehead, cheeks, and lips.
"Th-thank you," he murmured, his eyes beginning to sting from the lack of blinking. "Thank you very..."
The end of the sentence faded away to nothing.
"I think it might be time for you to stand down, sir," said Lake, gently easing his employer into a chair someone had fetched from the Shrillexian restaurant behind them.
The chief resumed blinking, but not with any real enthusiasm.
"Yes," he said softly. "I’ll stand down."
"Would you like me to call the negotiator back, sir?" Lake asked. "It might be better if he took over now."
"Trained negotia..." Pargo turned to look at Lake in surprise, as if seeing him for the first time.
"Yes. Yes, I think that might be for the—”
"Bis, darling!" shrieked a female voice so loud and shrill it set Oxbo Lake's teeth on edge. "I got your call, sweetie! Look at you, all in charge!"
Lake’s temporary positivity deflated when he saw who was striding toward them, lines of beaming cops parting like waves to allow her access.
Minty Clinch, Hann's most popular—and most irritating—news reporter.
Everything about the woman was fake, from her accent to her pneumatic breasts. She wore false eyelashes, sported dyed pink hair, and pouted wildly through artificially plumped lips.
Behind her scuttled a gorilla of a man with a TV camera on his shoulder and a tall, thin figure wielding a microphone at the end of a pole.
"Mwah! Mwah!" The news anchor kissed the air on either side of Bis Pargo's face, then playfully tapped the end of his nose with one of the long scarlet talons she wore as fingernails.
"I came as quickly as I could, lovekins!" she cawed. "But then, I always do when we get together, don't I?!"
Tossing back her head, she projected a loud raucous laugh which to Oxbo Lake sounded like someone clubbing a bistok to death with a hammer.
Neither her camera ape nor her sound-stick reacted in any way.
"So what's going on, honey pie? What have you got for me this time?"
Pargo opened his mouth to reply but Clinch pressed a finger to his lips to hush him, her wide eyes fixed on the corpse across the street.
"Is that Thavo Domp?" she squealed excitedly. "I've rarely seen him looking so photogenic! Boys, I want close-ups of the body from all angles. Get as much coverage as you can over there while I have a little tête-à-tête with Poppa Bear!"
"No, you can't—” exclaimed Oxbo Lake, reaching out to stop them as the camera crew made their way across the street to film the remains of the casino owner. No one paid him any attention.
Delving into her bistok-hide purse, Minty Clinch produced a notepad with a glitter-coated cover and a golden pen. "OK, stud!" she cooed, flicking through the pad to reach a blank page. "Spill it!"
The change in the police chief's attitude was astounding. Gone was any sign of the nervous out-of-his-depth milksop who had only a few moments earlier wanted nothing more than to scurry back to the safety of his warm and corpse-free office.
The bloated blowhard was back in full force.
"Minty, you're just in time to witness the future mayor of this moon in action, personally leading a SWAT team to storm The Blue Diamond Casino, free the terrified hostages and slap the cuffs on a violent serial-killing bastard!"
Somewhere beneath several thick layers of makeup Minty Clinch's face lit up with delight. "How thrilling! Can we come with you?"
"Of course!" crowed Pargo, turning to his horrified assistant. "Lake, give the SWAT team the order to suit up, get me the biggest gun you can find in the armorer's truck, and fetch Miss Clinch a bullet-proof vest!"
"Something figure-hugging, babe!" mewed the reporter, cupping her rock-solid breasts. "I want to be sure to show these puppies off to their very best advantage. They cost me a damn fortune, after all!"
Moon of Hann, Inside The Blue Diamond Casino
Jack and Tc'aarlat pressed themselves against the wall on the landing in front of the late gaming impresario's office. By finding the correct angle, they could use the reflection from the mirrored wall behind the bar to watch Vimor Malfic pace up and down before his remaining hostages.
Both men drew their modified Jean Dukes Specials.
"What do we set them to?" hissed Tc'aarlat.
Jack turned his dial slowly, matching each click with the rhythmic sounds emanating from the slot machines on the casino floor below.
"Stun only," he replied. "I want both Malfic and Phisk alive, and we have to be careful not to wing any of the innocents in there when it all kicks off."
"Innocents!" spat Tc'aarlat. "Can you really call anyone who comes to this butt-crack of a moon 'innocent?’"
"You know, for a former smuggler and money-launderer for the mob you come across as extremely judgmental sometimes."
"Hey!" exclaimed Tc'aarlat. "That hurts! And I'm willing to bet you've not led a squeaky-clean life yourself. I can see you being a pervert in the course of justice."
"What?!" Jack scowled. "No, that's wrong. The phrase is 'pervert the course of justice'!"
"That's what I said!" countered Tc'aarlat. "You're just as much of a pervert as I am!"
Jack sighed. "Forget it! What's the plan?"
Tc'aarlat shrugged. "Never come back here?"
"No, you crusted cretin!" whispered Jack, gesturing to the office door. "What's the plan once we get in there?!"
"Oh," replied Tc'aarlat. "No idea. I was going to follow your lead."
"And what if I haven't got a lead?"
"Then I guess we're fucked."
Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay, now let's imagine we don't want to get fucked..."
"Sounds good to me."
"So, what's the twatting plan?!"
Before the Yollin could respond, the screen of his wrist communicator lit up and Solo's face appeared. "Excuse me, Tc'aarlat," she began at full volume. "Is Captain Marber with you? I need to get—”
Tc'aarlat tore the device off his arm and hurled it as far as he could across the casino floor.
But it was too late. The office door beside the two men was wrenched open and the barrel of a gun was pressed to the side of Tc'aarlat's head.
"Toss your weapons, fuck-nuggets!"
Tc'aarlat glanced at Jack, who nodded. Reluctantly, the two men threw their guns down the staircase, sending them clattering to the floor of the gaming room below.
"Well, well!" snarled Vimor Malfic. "Looks like we've got a couple of heroes sneaking up on us."
"There's no way we'd have a go at anyone, buddy," commented Tc'aarlat. "We can't even agree on a plan."
Malfic struck the Yollin hard across the side of his face with the gun, knocking him backward.
CRUNCH!
Jack caught his friend before he could tumble down the stairs.
"You two…inside, now!"
Jack and Tc'aarlat were marched into the room. The hostages looked at them with hope in their eyes…which quickly drained away once they realized that the two newcomers weren't accompanied by any form of back-up and that their captor clearly had the drop on them.
Tc'aarlat made to join the other hostages along the far wall.
"No, no, no!" growled Malfic. "You two, kneel!"
Tc'aarlat stopped and slowly turned to face the felon. Two steps took him back to the center of the room, where he planned to glare directly back at his aggressor.
Unfortunately he found himself staring hard at Malfic's chest.
Angling his head up, he snarled at the hostage-taker's chin.
"I don't kneel for anyone!" he snapped.
CRUNCH!
The Yollin received a second strike across his face with Malfic's gun in return for his comment.
"Maybe you didn't hear me, fuckwit—"
CRUNCH!
"I said I don't—”
CRUNCH!
"Kneel for—”
CRUNCH!
"Anyone!"
CRUNCH!
Tc'aarlat blinked back the blood dripping into his right eye from a cut just above it.
"However, on this occasion I'm prepared to make an exception."
The Yollin sank slowly to his knees beside Jack. He attempted to offer his colleague a conspiratorial wink but could only twitch his already half-closed eye.
Malfic pressed the barrel of his gun to Tc'aarlat's forehead. "You think you're a funny fucker, don't you?"
This time, Tc'aarlat didn't reply.
"I don't like funny fuckers."
Still nothing.
"But I do like turning them into dead fuckers!"
He thumbed back the hammer.
Tc'aarlat closed both his good and bad eyes.
This was it.
This is where it was going to end.
After years of working for, then ripping off the mob, chasing down Dark Tomorrow terrorists, and now spying for the Etheric Federation, it all came down to this.
Being executed by an escaped convict in a cheap casino on a sleazy moon.
Fucking wonderful.
Tc'aarlat concentrated on the circle of metal against his forehead. "You'd better make sure you have enough firepower in that thing to get through my exoskeleton," he spat. "'Cos if you don't kill me with the first shot, I'm gonna stuff my fist down your throat and rip out your fucking lungs."
"Oh, I've got the firepower," snarled Malfic.
Then came the gunshot.
For a moment, all Tc'aarlat knew was silence. Was this what came next? Was this how it all happened? Just silence?
Gradually, he came to realize he wasn't cocooned in silence. There was noise. So much noise, his brain must have temporarily severed the connection to his ears to prevent serious damage.
And the noise felt hot! How could that be? He could smell it, too. It smelled like burning flesh.
Then everything came rushing back into sharp focus. His ears were ringing, and the smell was burning the inside of his nostrils.
He was still alive.
Malfic had dropped his gun and staggered back against the far wall, his left hand pressed over a blast wound that had taken out part of his right shoulder.
The ringing was the result of a shot crashing past his head. Someone had arrived just in time to shoot Malfic and save his life.
The Yollin stood shakily, turning to see who it was.
Oh no.
Oh, fucking NO!
Not him!
Anyone but HIM!
"Bet you thought we weren't coming, huh?" grinned Draven.
"NO!" screamed Tc'aarlat, snatching up Malfic's weapon. "Do it again!" he roared, charging over to the wounded felon and trying to force the gun back into his limp, useless hand. "DO IT AGAIN!"
Then someone was dragging him away. No, not one person. Two. He looked up, his good eye swimming with tears of frustration. Jack had hold of one arm and Adina had the other.
They were dragging him back toward the door.
And still that damn ringing pierced his damn mind! What the fuck had Draven shot Malfic with, a Gott Verdammt cannon?"
Fighting free of his fellow Shadows, Tc'aarlat stood and scanned the room for the pin-up pilot.
There he was! And he was clutching a...
"What the shit is that thing?!" he demanded.
Draven waved what looked like a meter-long Jean Dukes Special. It was a fucking monster of a gun.
"The latest thing to come from the labs back home," he explained. "They call it ‘The Thunderbolt.’"
Tc'aarlat spun to look at Jack for his reaction and saw another of the stunning new weapons in Adina's hands.
"Draven brought them with him in the new Pegasus," she told him. "There's one for you back on the ship. We get to keep them."
She handed her colleagues their JD Specials. "Callis found these on the casino floor," she said. "We thought you might like them back."
From just outside the office doorway, Callis gave a shy wave.
Tc'aarlat lifted his hands, a gun in each. One, some shitty point-and-shoot piece of crap that Malfic was planning to execute him with, the other his trusted Jean Dukes Special.
He dumped the lesser weapon on the couch between the two female hostages. They clung to each other, with Lowlon Quell, Zalah Gilt, and Jolio Phisk hovering nearby.
Sergeant Barber was missing, presumably having gone to unlock the casino doors and call in assistance.
"You okay?" Jack asked the Yollin.
Tc'aarlat nodded, wiping the blood still pooling around his injured eye with the back of his hand.
"Never better." He spun the dial on his weapon, his gaze fixed firmly on the slumped figure of Vimor Malfic.
Three. Four. Five. Six.
Seven.
He began to walk across the office toward the serial killer.
"Whoa!" cried Jack, grabbing his arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Tc'aarlat yanked his arm free.
And kept walking.
Malfic looked up, his eyes struggling to focus as they met Tc'aarlat's. The felon's breathing was growing increasingly shallow as blood pumped from his wounded shoulder.
He wouldn't last much longer at this rate.
And Tc'aarlat wasn't going to let him go that easily.
He could hear Jack shouting his name somewhere in the distance; somewhere beyond the fierce ringing and the cries of relief from the few remaining hostages.
But he ignored it all.
Slowly he raised his gun, pressing the end of the barrel hard against Malfic's sweat-covered forehead.
"Hello," he said calmly. "The funny fucker's back."
Then a smoke grenade landed in the middle of the room and exploded.
Reality turned to shit again. People ran, screamed, coughed, puked.
Tc'aarlat saw figures moving into the room. Figures dressed in dark clothing. Figures wearing full-face gas masks.
The police.
"Down on the floor! I said, get down on the floor!"
At first the Yollin couldn't work out why he was being manhandled like this. Why he was being pushed face first onto the carpet. Why some damn mountain of a cop was sitting on his fucking back!
He was one of the good guys.
Then
a heavy black boot stamped down on his wrist and his gun was pulled from his hand.
Shit! They thought he was one of the hostage takers!
Twisting his head to one side, he found he wasn't alone on the ground. Jack was lying to his left. Adina and Draven were on his right.
They were all shouting something, but he couldn't make out what it was.
Fuck this fucking ringing in his fucking ears!
Then the smoke began to dissipate. Members of the SWAT team pulled off their masks.
A new figure strode confidently into the room, squeezed into a bullet-proof vest that barely contained his expansive stomach. It was the police chief who had fucked them off outside the casino.
Followed by what appeared to be a hairless ape with a camera, some rake-thin streak of nothing almost invisible behind his mic pole, and a pouting plastic tart covered in enough make-up to stock a department store.
"Yes!" Chief Bis Pargo beamed. "I think that all went extremely well!"
"Consider yourself headline news, darling!" tooted the tart with the titanic tracks of land.
And still Tc'aarlat couldn't make out what Jack was shouting. He had to silence the room.
"YYYAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!" he roared.
Everyone else fell silent for a moment.
Everyone but Jack.
"Where is he?" he was screaming. "Where the fuck is he?!"
The reality of the situation hit Tc'aarlat like a diamond sledgehammer. He forced himself up, although the large cop was still sitting on him.
Finally, he had enough movement to turn and look at the blood-smeared wall behind him.
That was all there was. Just the wall and the blood.
Vimor Malfic was missing.
21
Moon of Hann, Backstreets
Sergeant Randy Barber drew the gun he'd borrowed from a colleague outside the casino and approached the corner of the dark street.
He'd spotted Vimor Malfic disappearing through the crowds while giving his immediate superior details of what had transpired during the siege and had quickly followed, pausing only to ask a friend on the force for the loan of his weapon.
Even here, several streets away from the main drag, the constant mixture of sounds blasting from the many businesses touting their wares to tourists could still be heard, albeit mellowed into a low-level white noise by the distance.
