Dead Men's Dust

    Rink appeared on the stairs below me. Blood was seeping from a shallow nick below his left eye. Other than that, he appeared unhurt.

    'One of the punks thought he'd do me with a set of brass knuckles,' Rink said. He dabbed away blood with the back of his wrist. 'I soon knocked that silly notion out of his skull.'

    'Get yourself up here and give me some cover,' I whispered to him. 'Sounds like they're holed up in a room on my right.'

    Rink came up the stairs, feeding shells into his shotgun. There was blood on the stock. Thug with brass knuckles versus Rink wielding a shotgun like a club: no contest.

    'I'm going to try and get by that door there. If it looks like it's about to open, give 'em hell.'

    'Leave it to me,' Rink said. He moved to the head of the stairs where he could get a line on the door I'd indicated.

    Cat-footed, I moved forward, my gun extended before me. The defenders behind the door had to know I was moving into the corridor, but there was nothing for it: I had to go forward. We had to stop them and stop them fast. I feared the arrival of reinforcements who'd be able to pen us in from below. Then there was the other consideration. That Petoskey was making a quick exit by another route. If he got away from us now, it'd probably be impossible to get a second chance at him.

    Passing the door on the right, I nodded for Rink to follow, and he thumped up the corridor like Frankenstein's monster. True to form, the door exploded into splinters. Even the wall opposite was shredded, the bullets continuing into the rooms beyond.

    As the first barrage ended, I swung in front of the shattered door, emptying my clip through the wood. Men yelled inside the room, one of them making a series of gasps. I'd hit one of them at least. That left—what?— three more?

    Rink lifted a boot and smashed open the door. Immediately he blasted the interior of the room before swinging back out of sight. Two seconds of carnage were all I required to insert a full clip of ammo. Exchanging positions with choreographed precision, I opened up, firing off bullets as quickly as I could squeeze the trigger. Then I was in the room and had moved left as Rink let off another full load of pellets.

    Armed confrontations do not resemble John Woo's battles of balletic gunplay; any somersaulting or leaping through space discharging bullets is reserved for the movies. Reality is not so pretty. I slammed my back to a wall, my gun out before me, and emptied it at every target that moved. I was shouting something that was unintelligible even to me. An animal shout of loathing, fear, and unrestrained rage.

    It took all of a few seconds to deplete my gun of bullets, yet I felt as spent as the bullet casings littering the floor at my feet.

    Rink hustled into the room, the stock of his shotgun to his shoulder as he sought targets. Smoke hung in the air. So did the unmistakable tang of blood. One man was huddled in a corner of the room, hands over his head as he sobbed in terror. Another was sprawled over a coffee table, a hole the size of a baby's fist in his shoulder. The man murmured, delirious in his agony.

    That accounted for two of them, but I couldn't see where the other two were. As Rink covered the cowering man, I ejected my empty clip and inserted a fresh one. Rink moved over to the open window. Sounds of flight ricocheted from the fire escape beyond.

    'Careful,' I said. Both to Rink and as a warning to the man who cringed away from the business end of my SIG. Rink gave me a wry grin as he approached the window.

    'Like rats down a drainpipe,' he observed. 'Two of them are running for it.'

    'Let them run,' I said. The cowering man peeked up at me through tears and smeared snot. I nudged him with a boot. 'Where's John Telfer?'

    In those old Poe books, victims of terror often gave out a keening wail. I'd never heard one for real and couldn't imagine what one sounded like. Until now.

    I nudged him harder. 'I said, 'Where's Telfer?' I won't ask again.'

    He must have read something in my face. Maybe my hesitancy to kill in cold blood. Whatever it was, his demeanor suddenly changed. 'Go to hell, asshole.'

    'So now you're the brave guy?' I put the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead. 'You don't think I'll do it? Try me.'

    As suddenly, he was wailing again.

    'Where's Telfer?' I asked.

    'I don't know who you mean. Speak to Petoskey, man. Not us. For God's sake . . . don't kill me.'

    I took the gun from his skull. There was a scarlet ring where the hot metal had pressed into his flesh. 'Second question, and the rules haven't changed. Where's Petoskey?'

    He wanted to resist. Perhaps it was bravado, but more likely it was fear of his boss that held his tongue. Back went the gun.

    'Where's Petoskey?'

    Fear of a bullet in the skull now or perhaps one later from Petoskey if he survived; I could see the math going around in his head. It was a simple equation.

    He nodded upward, eyes on the ceiling above.

    'He's upstairs?' I asked.

    The man nodded again.

    'How many with him?'

    'How the hell should I know?' the man spluttered.