“What are you talking…?” Declare’s voice trailed off as the meaning became clear. He looked up suddenly, urging his men to do the same. The Peregrine cursed under his breath as one of the goons spotted him at last.
In seconds, numerous weapons covered him. If they’d chosen to open fire at that point, he probably would have been a dead man.
Luckily for him, Nimrod stepped forward and said, “How about I earn my keep right now and kill him right in front of you?”
The Peregrine took that as his cue to go into action. He pushed off from the rafters and performed the kind of acrobatic flip that would have wowed an Olympic judge. He landed in a crouch and then stood up, unable to hide the smile on his face. He couldn’t help it. Sometimes, even in the face of death, he found himself enjoying his work.
“You know,” he said, projecting as much bravado as possible, “if you’re going to play with masked vigilantes and use a dramatic name like Nimrod, you need to raise your game a bit. Wear a mask yourself or at least put on a bit of makeup. Otherwise, you’re just playing at it.”
Nimrod chuckled. He reached down and unbuckled his guns, tossing them onto the table where Declare and Vinnie had been seated a moment before. “I don’t think I’m going to need these. I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”
The Peregrine noted that mafia goons were circling them but still keeping their distance. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to get out of this situation and he felt like a fool for not having shared the information about the meeting with his friend Will McKenzie. The town’s top law enforcement official could have swooped in right now with a bunch of cops and The Peregrine would have been quite grateful.
Nimrod didn’t wait for The Peregrine to respond verbally. He struck first, delivering a backhanded blow to the side of Max’s head. It left Max’s ears ringing but was intended more to insult than truly harm.
The Peregrine was quite comfortable with hand-to-hand combat, however. He had been trained by no less than the famed Warlike Manchu, after all, and was considered one of the ten best fighters in over a dozen different techniques.
A flurry of quick punches and kicks came from The Peregrine but to his surprise, Nimrod blocked them all. In fact, the man seemed to be perfectly mimicking every style that Max knew.
Grinning, Nimrod whispered, “I’ve been watching you for weeks now. Saw you take down Declare’s boys last weekend and before that, I witnessed you against those things that climbed out of the lake. You’re a talented fella and I like that.”
The Peregrine remembered both of those fights. The things from the lake had been young Deep Ones, horrible amphibious monsters that had come to Atlanta looking for easy prey. “Who trained you?” he asked, narrowly avoiding a punch to his throat.
“You might as well have,” Nimrod responded. “Once I see a move, I can copy it like I’ve always known it. Makes me the perfect hunter, don’t you think?”
The Peregrine grunted as Nimrod spun about and caught him with a kick to the midsection. It was a kick that The Peregrine had used against a Deep One, finishing him off.
Max hit the floor but rolled over and sprang up in an instant. The mood in the room had shifted now as the criminals sensed that they were about to see their hated enemy get his comeuppance.
The Peregrine wasn’t sure that they were wrong.
Nimrod continued to press his sudden advantage, not giving The Peregrine a moment to catch his breath. The villain unleashed an obscure martial arts move that The Peregrine had learned in Vietnam, driving the flat of his foot hard into the hero’s chin and then spinning about to connect with an open-palm slap to The Peregrine’s forehead. The combination left Max reeling and he was unprepared for the follow-up: a good, old-fashioned punch to the nose.
Blood flowed freely down The Peregrine’s face and he tumbled to his knees, pain momentarily blotting out all rational thought. It was just then that the worst possible thing happened — a stabbing knife of agony sliced right through The Peregrine’s brain, making him scream out loud.
Nimrod and the men watching all froze in place, uncertain what was happening. They saw The Peregrine reach up and seize the sides of his head. His face was contorting in obvious distress.
“Jesus, what did you do to the guy?” Declare asked.
Nimrod paused, giving a shrug of his shoulders. “Maybe he’s upset because he knows he’s about to get killed.”
The truth was that The Peregrine was now unaware of his surroundings. He was seeing images in his mind’s eye… horrific things full of death and destruction. Ever since he’d witnessed his father’s murder, Max Davies had been plagued by such visions and they came at a time of their choosing.
He now saw a set of dramatically-attired people, most of whom he recognized but some that the did not: he saw Lazarus Gray, the bloodthirsty vigilante known as The Gravedigger, a man dressed in a domino-style mask and, of all things, a top hat, a Negro wearing a peculiar set of emerald clothing and several others that looked too hazy for him to focus on the details.
All around these people were scenes of horror. Strange, octopus-like tentacles were writhing around them, seizing hold of their necks and limbs. He heard echoing laughter rising above all… and he saw the already infamous swastikas that were now associated with Nazi Germany being raised on scarlet flags on no less than the White House itself.
Another flash of light and sound accompanied a transition of sorts, showing The Peregrine a familiar locale: 6196 Robeson Avenue, the home of Lazarus Gray. The building was aglow with some sort of mystic power and a skeletal man dressed in dark clothing was on the roof, bearing aloft a crystal ball.
The visions faded as quickly as they had emerged and The Peregrine shook his head to help clear them away. He remembered now where he had been and as he looked around, he saw Nimrod had reclaimed one of his pistols and was now standing above The Peregrine, the barrel pushed up against the hero’s forehead.
Acting quickly, The Peregrine seized Nimrod’s hand and yanked the pistol towards Declare. Applying sudden pressure, The Peregrine caused Nimrod to pull the trigger, sending a bullet straight into the mobster’s face.
The reaction from Declare’s men was instantaneous. The action had been so quick that many of them had never even seen The Peregrine’s movement. As a result, they suspected a double-cross, leading them to open fire not only on Nimrod but on the Italian mobsters, who then responded in kind.
Nimrod cried out as a bullet caught him in the shoulder but he was swift in his motions, diving below a table and then quickly scurrying towards an exit.
The Peregrine also elected to take the better part of valor, though he reached into his jacket and extracted a small smoke bomb. It wasn’t enough to do more than annoy those it hit, which was why he hadn’t used it upon being spotted. But in the sudden chaos, it took on a greater impact as the bullets continued to fly wildly.
The Peregrine emerged into the night air. He wiped away blood with the back of a gloved hand, noting that Nimrod had managed to effectively vanish.
I’m going to find you, The Peregrine silently swore. And next time I’m going to be prepared for your little tricks.
Confident that there would be few, if any, gangsters left alive after their gunfight ended, The Peregrine took flight and found his roadster parked down the street. The visions he’d seen were still rattling around in his head, concerning him.
He knew what he had to do, though. Before anything else, he needed to call Lazarus Gray and tell him that dark days lie ahead.
