Henson worked the rope around his veined forearm, holding his body in place. His other hand free, he got his axe lose. He had one of his miniature smoke bombs with him as well as an incendiary type. The latter was based on a grenade developed by the Germans toward the close of World War I. He wasn’t of a mind to start a fire in the room beyond—at least if he didn’t have to, but better to be prepared.
Henson clenched the axe handle between his teeth and, unlimbering the rope, got both hands on it as he slipped down again. He came to rest just above the curtained window, not worried if those inside detected movement or not. What had that blowhard Peary always barked? “Find a way or make one, Henson.”
“Well, shit,” he smiled thinly as he pushed backward once, twice, and on the third time, muttering, “Whoop halloo,” got enough arc as he swung back toward the building and let go of the rope. His boots and legs burst through the glass. Though it looked like he would land on his butt, the airborne Henson tucked his body into a ball and he landed neatly in a roll. One side of the curtains ripped from its pole as the material caught in the fold of his leg.
A hood who’d been sitting in a chair eating a sandwich gaped at the unexpected entrance. He spat roast beef and tomato from his mouth, his hand darting for a .45 in a shoulder holster draped on the back of a chair. He got the gun in his fist, but too late, Henson was upright and sprang on him.
“You goddamn jumping jigaboo,” the white gunman blared.
“Jump on this,” Henson said as he punched the man in the side of his head. He stumbled sideways, dazed. A pocket door to another room slammed home. A second gunman in a garish tie came out firing a drum-loaded Thompson machine gun. He raked the room in a sweep of bullets, hunks of wood, cloth and porcelain flying everywhere as the rounds blistered furniture and exploded the bric-a-brac.
“Watch where you’re shooting, Eddie,” the one Henson had struck yelled. He’d crawled behind a wingback chair.
“Aw, stop being a crybaby,” Eddie groused. He looked around, not sure where their intruder had gone. There was a swinging door to the kitchen, and several bullet holes had penetrated the door.
“The darkie must be in there,” said the first hood.
“He’s as good as on the slab,” Eddie, staring forward, sent another burst through the door. His companion, gun in hand, joined in. The door now hung loose, the plaster and frame now nearly non-existent. From inside the kitchen, it got kicked all the way off and fell on the machine gunner.
“Goddammit,” Eddie said knocking the door away from his body.
But Henson had already deployed his smoke grenade, and the thick stuff spread quickly through the compact quarters.
“The hell,” the hood with the .45 said, “can’t see shit.” He waved his hand before his face seeking to part the pall. The ice axe whistled through the dissipating cloud, sailing end over end, until the blade sunk into the center of his forehead. Eyes rolling back, his brain ceased functioning by the time he collapsed to the floor. The smoke lifted from around the fresh corpse, crawling upward to the ceiling like ghostly tendrils. The occupants of the apartment were revealed. Water could be heard dripping into the pan beneath the ice box in the kitchen. Henson stood stock still on the plain carpet.
Eddie, positioned just beyond the archway of the open pocket door, pressed the barrel of his weapon against the side of a pretty woman in a fashionable skirt and midday blouse. “You go back and tell Daddy Paradise you failed, shine. Take another step and this here fine brown gal gets ventilated like Swiss cheese.” The girl looked nervous but not overly so, Henson noted, cool-headed.
“They hurt you any, Destiny?” Henson asked.
“Oh, they crowed and strutted like roosters do, but nothing that’ll give me nightmares.”
“Hey, cut it out.” He jabbed the barrel into her for emphasis. “You got any idea who I work for, huh?”
Henson said, “I know exactly who you work for.”
“Then you best skedaddle. You messin’ in white folks’ business and you already in way over your head.” His gaze flitted toward the dead man then back in Henson. “You gonna pay for what you did.”
“If not in this world, then the next.”
“What?’ he began, but didn’t finish.
In a motion that confounded the thug, Henson whipped his empty hand across his body like a magician’s flourish. From out of his sleeve flew a shuriken—a throwing star. Two of its five razor-sharp points embedded deep in the wrist holding the Tommy gun. More from surprise than pain, the hood reacted, his grip loosening on his prisoner though he managed to hold onto his weapon. She drove a heel into his foot and he gritted his teeth.
“Goddamn black bitch,” he wailed.
He twisted, leveling the gun back on her, but Henson had already closed the distance between them. Henson grabbed the barrel as a burst of fire leapt from the Thompson. Rounds ripped into the couch, cotton stuffing erupting from the destroyed cushions.
“Let go,” the hood rasped, hitting Henson in the gut, surprised his fist met packed muscle. And just that quick, Henson batted the machine gun away while taking a step back as it fell to the floor.
“You gonna get yours now, boy,” the hoodlum said, his fists up in a boxer’s stance. “I don’t need no gat to teach you a lesson.”
