It was actually a new take on an old gadget he’d never quite perfected. The application fit my purposes nicely, however. So, hiding beneath my sleeve was a device that shot tiny rockets. Well, that’s what they looked like, though they didn’t burn when they released, and Bergman wouldn’t explain the technology that made them fly. He just said they somehow targeted what you were looking at, hit it, and then burrowed in. Once under the skin they released hundreds of miniature robots that went straight to the brain. At which point they exploded.
Bergman noted that his original plan was to use the robots as tumor eaters. But apparently that required a lot more finesse than his little guys were capable of. Thus, the kaboom. Lucky for him, we in the CIA love the kaboom.
“Who let you in?” I asked. “And does Samos force you to dress like the Lollipop Guild, or is it just instinct?”
Ignoring my jibe, Blondie said, “We have people in all the major Trusts in Europe. Soon they will begin falling like dominos.” He looked at the ceiling, as if we’d stowed the mutt in the crawl space, and snapped, “Ziel, come.” No sound from the bedroom. I imagined the malamute crouching inside the tub, trying to figure out if there was a way for a four-legged dude with a hard head and a strong will to barricade the door.
“Bring him to us,” said Blondie, “or we start carving up your friends.” He nodded to Mohawk, who pulled a bowie knife from a sheath at his belt as he strode forward to grab Dave.
I didn’t even have to look at Vayl. Some things you just know. Like that he’ll always give you the last bite of his brownie. And he’ll never fail to defend the people you love.
I fired my rocket at Blondie even as I charged their line. My idea was to surround myself with bad guys who would, no doubt, pummel me senseless within a matter of seconds. But at least they couldn’t shoot me. Not without hitting each other.
Blondie dove to the floor. At the same time he yanked Overbite toward him, using him as a shield. The slug hit him in the shoulder, flipping him ninety degrees, at which point he smacked into the wall.
I shot another missile at Old-Timer, who’d had the experience and presence of mind to stand still and target me. It hit him in the chest, throwing off his aim just enough that I heard the bullet split the air above my head. He sat down hard, pulling it out like some badass cowboy. The rip it left revealed the bulletproof vest he was wearing. Shit!
Dave had disarmed Mohawk, whose right wrist dangled at such an odd angle I was sure it wouldn’t be working correctly for some weeks to come. They were fighting hand-to-hand. And it wasn’t pretty, like you see on TV. Mostly grunting and a few choice blows that landed with a sickening, flat sound that lets you know something underneath the skin is either broken or bleeding.
Vayl filled the air with winter, making Samos’s gang groan, slowing their reflexes as they faced two people who were pretty much immune to vamp powers. But my boss didn’t move into the melee as I’d expected. Instead he disappeared into the bedroom.
I didn’t have time to wonder about his plan. Because the hint of a blur out of the corner of my eye told me to duck. I heard the whir of a blade slice off a hunk of hair as Blondie followed through with a kick that caught me in the kidneys, knocking me into Old-Timer. Though my lower back felt like it had caved in, I made the move count, isolating his gun arm so I could grab, twist, and break. He doubled over with a grunt of pain that he soon repeated when I followed up with a knee to the jaw.
By the time I stood, I’d drawn my great-granddad’s bolo and loaded up another missile. I met Blondie’s blade with a clash of my own, just managing to transform a major stab wound into a minor slice of the upper arm. At the same time I aimed the rocket at Overbite, who was just regaining his feet. It fired just as Blondie threw a punch that hit me under the collarbone. Suddenly struggling to breathe, I fell. The missile launched and flew upward, digging into the ceiling, where it released its robots into the intricate white tiles above, making them tremble and bulge. And still, no explosions.
If I’d had a second to spare, I’d have used it to curse Bergman and his goddamn prototypes.
I began to rise, planning an attack that would leave Blondie at least lame and, at most, dead. Which was when I felt the round, cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my temple.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Get up real slow,” said Old-Timer.
I couldn’t have moved any other way. In fact, Blondie’s blows to my kidneys and lungs made me think it would be nice if an elderly lady would appear beside me with her walker, which I could then attempt to summit. I did consider grabbing the wall for support as I tried to rise. But they’d like that too much. So I just let my mind scream, Ow! Ow, ow-ow-ow! as I made it first to my knees and then to my feet.
At which point I realized Overbite had Dave covered as well.
“Have a seat,” ordered Old-Timer, pointing his gun at the fountain-bound wicker, his other arm hanging useless at his side.
Overbite shook his barrel at Dave. We both began walking.
I don’t know how many steps I’d taken, enough to feel like I was going to make it to the chair before they killed me, when pain lanced through my back. I spun, barely stifling a scream as I realized I’d been cut; that huge droplets of blood had splashed onto the seat cushions and into the fountain behind me. Blondie stood before me, his dagger red and dripping, his smile wide and lustful.
Screw getting shot. I’m going to kick your pretty teeth in, I thought wildly. With Old-Timer standing to my left, and Overbite to my right, the latter holding his gun to my chest, it wasn’t going to be a long, drawn-out revenge. But I thought I might at least get to wipe that disgusting look off his face before I died.
Mohawk beat me to it. He shouted from the doorway, where he stood watching, holding his damaged wrist with his good hand. “These are proven warriors! They have earned an honorable death!”
“Who are you to decide?” Blondie demanded. “I am Samos’s field commander.”
“Not after he learns you lost his dog.”
Blondie flinched, his eyes going just round enough to make me wonder what kind of punishment Samos would mete out to an underling who’d screwed up as badly as he had.
Mohawk went on. “In fact, I think your only way clear of slow torture is to have died in battle retrieving Ziel. Which will, of course, leave Samos free to consider a new commander.” He nodded to Overbite and Old-Timer, who each nailed Blondie with a single shot. Blam, blam.
The crack of both guns going off simultaneously, even though they carried silencers, still sent a doomed whip of sound snapping through the room.
The impact, hard as double sledgehammers slamming into his skull, threw Blondie backward. He died before he hit the floor, his last expression one of mild surprise. Blood pooled beneath him, filling the cracks in the floorboards, running toward my boots as if to lick them in belated apology.
Old-Timer turned to speak to Mohawk, but before he could get the words out he was interrupted. By singing. Loud, raucous, off-key belting in the deep voice of a man who’s had way too much to drink, coming closer by the second.
“Well, it’s a girls’ night out. Honey, there ain’t no doubt. Hey!” Tarasios appeared, grinning happily in the doorway, his head practically on Mohawk’s shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the exterminators. Did you find the cockroaches okay?” He glanced down. “Aw, look, a dead man!”
Crowding Mohawk aside by virtue of a drunken stumble combined with a sigh that had to smell strongly of the bottle of ouzo he held, Tarasios half knelt beside, half fell on Blondie.