Dead Men's Dust

    Gaining the first landing, I laid a hand on the door. The locking bar, like much of the remainder of the building, was an item lost in the past desecration of this place. The door swung open at the slightest tug. Rink immediately stepped past me, sweeping the darkness with his shotgun.

    'Clear,' he whispered, and I entered.

    We stood still, acclimating ourselves to the ambient light leaking in from outside and listening to the natural sounds of the building. Far above, voices formed a discordant chorus. Someone was laughing. Then there were the dogs. No longer were they yapping, but snarling and barking maniacally.

    'Dogfights,' I whispered.

    'Son of a bitch,' Rink snarled. In the half-light, I saw his face grow hard. 'I'm going to feed the punk his own balls.'

    'Yeah,' I agreed. For one instant my mind shifted half a world away and I saw my own dogs, Hector and Paris. The thought of their being forced to fight to the death for the sick pleasure of the likes of Petoskey was enough to sicken even the stone-cold assassin in me.

    Shake the anger loose, Hunter, I cautioned myself. It was bad enough that we were going in outnumbered. Never mind doing it in the wrong frame of mind. Go in in a rage and we'd be dead before we reached the next floor. I reached out in the dark to grab Rink's forearm.

    'Go easy,' I cautioned him.

    'I'm cool,' Rink replied. And I knew that he was.

    'Okay. You take point.'

    'You want I go up or across?' Rink asked.

    'Across,' I said. In all likelihood, this stairwell was used exclusively by the dropouts who squatted here during the daylight hours. We had to go up by the route Petoskey would take, to ensure that we took out any possible reinforcements.

    The corridor could have been a set from a horror movie. Cobwebs brushed our faces. Dust sifted from above and clung to my lips. From behind closed doors, the specters of this place tittered at our bravado. They beckoned to us; come and join us in hell, there's plenty of room for two more.

    The far end of the corridor didn't come too soon for me.

    Rink was waiting in a vestibule area. A door that had once held wire-reinforced glass but was now blocked by a tarpaulin hung on bent nails, barred our progress. The faint buzz of conversation filtered from beyond.

    'What do you think?' Rink whispered.

    Ever the smart one, I made a quick calculation. Held up three fingers to Rink. Not that he didn't trust me; Rink placed his face at the edge of the tarpaulin to confirm the estimate. We moved back down the corridor a safe distance.

    'Two guys on the stairs. Looks like another one sitting down in a chair to the left of the door, but I could only see his feet.'

    'Armed?' I asked Rink.

    'Nothing I could see.' Rink shrugged. 'Doesn't mean anything. They could still be packing.'

    Armed or not, it didn't mean a thing. I could chew my lips all day, but it wouldn't change our options. 'We treat them like they're armed. Okay?'

    'Yup,' Rink said, hefting the shotgun so the barrel was skyward.

    It's not what you want—and to be fair, it didn't lie straight with either of us—because it meant we were going in with what's known in our trade as extreme prejudice. In layman's terms: shoot to kill. These weren't international terrorists or even enemy soldiers, just half-assed gangland hoods. Killing them was extreme. Maybe too extreme under the circumstances. As Rink had reminded me last night, we didn't have a license to kill anymore.

    'No, Rink, we can't. You happy with defense only?' I suggested.

    Talk about weight coming off shoulders. I'd swear we both grew a head taller.

    'Okay,' I said. 'We only shoot when necessary. Otherwise it's hand-to-hand.'

    'I'm happy with that,' Rink said.

    Rink again laid an eye to the edge of the tarpaulin. His raised thumb showed no change to the tableau.

    Okay, we're rolling. Action!

    Rink ripped aside the tarpaulin and stepped into the hallway beyond. I was a fraction of a beat behind him.

    Confusion is the result of prolonged inactivity dramatically kickstarted into life. The three men in the stairwell were caught catching flies, with their hands in the cookie jar, with their trousers down, whatever your choice of metaphor. The sudden intrusion of two armed men in their midst caused shocked silence. But that was only one frame of the action. Time jumped to fast-forward.

    To my left a man erupted out of a wicker chair. He had a sawed-off across his lap and was snatching for it. It was an easy decision for me. I snapped my left hand sideways. Put a back fist strike to the bridge of his nose. The man went down into his seat like the world champion of competitive musical chairs. The fact that his hands didn't reach for his broken nose in reflex meant he was unconscious. The shotgun slipped out of his lap onto the floor and I swiped it away with the edge of my boot.

    Giving them their due, the other two had more sense than to challenge Rink's shotgun. They stood like mute statues until he ordered them to come forward. The one-two was on; I immediately mounted the stairs. From below me, Rink said something. Knowing him, it would be funny, but no one was laughing. The silence was followed by the thump and scuffle of feet, and I guessed my suggestion of handto-hand was being followed.