'Who knows, thief,' he decided, 'it might make for an interesting conclusion.'
17
events overtook our plan way too quickly for my liking. Not that I was surprised; isn't that always the way plans go? That's always been the flaw with our tactics. Murphy's Law strikes again.
It was no longer a case of a one-two move, but a full headlong charge for the top.
The man I'd knocked unconscious didn't give me enough to make a considered judgment. There could be as few as three men with Petoskey or as many as a dozen. Think the worst, and anything else is a bonus.
It was a full balls-to-the-wall assault.
We headed for the upper floor with our guns blasting. The intent wasn't to shoot anyone per se, but to cause as much confusion as possible. Petoskey was a rat, and everyone knows what rats do on a sinking ship. I ruled out the fire escape at this corner of the building, guessing that Petoskey would head for the one we'd used to gain access.
'I'm going back across, cut off any escape route,' I told Rink. 'You okay with that?'
He racked the pump action. 'As long as I've got ammo, I'll give 'em hell.'
'When the shooting stops, I want you to come up and join me as quickly as you can.'
'Damn, and here was me thinking it was time for a coffee break.'
'After we're done I'll buy you coffee and doughnuts.'
'Make 'em jelly doughnuts and you've got a deal.'
'Sounds good to me.'
Another volley of fire gained the attention of those on the populated side. I backtracked across the building.
Speed was an issue. Call me cautious, but I made my way through the building as though every nook hid an assassin. Better a minute late than thirty years too early at the pearly gates.
The remains of the door Rink had blasted were like an open mouth full of jagged teeth. The room beyond exuded the stench of battle like sour breath. Apart from the stink, the room was now empty. The unconscious man had obviously come to, and he wasn't as ill informed about our chances as he was making out. At least he'd had the sense to get the hell away from the shitstorm raging above. The man who had taken a bullet in the shoulder was gone, too. A smear of blood on the window ledge confirmed their escape route.
Happy that no one would come on me from behind, I ran along the corridor. Behind me, the boom of Rink's shotgun resonated as he unloaded it toward the upper floor.
I headed upward on the other staircase. Natural functions sometimes take a backseat when adrenaline shrieks through your veins; I took the full flight of stairs before I remembered to breathe. At the top I paused to exhale, sucked in air, then stepped out into a corridor much shorter than the one I'd passed through below.
A little over thirty feet away, the corridor had been blocked. What appeared to be a new metal door had been installed. It reverberated under the ring of urgent voices from beyond. A background accom paniment of baying dogs and shotgun blasts confirmed that I'd found Petoskey's hideout.
Cursory inspection of the metal door told me it was a no-go. There was no handle on this side, no keyhole. The soldier in me said it would be almost impregnable to anything short of heavy artillery. Abandoning the door, I stepped into the office on my left. There was the usual jumble of wrecked furniture and scattered documents.
I made my way to the wall and put an ear to it. I was quite sure that all the action was at the far end, and the possibility of getting hot lead in my ear was pretty slim.
The wall was made of Sheetrock, and by the swollen roar of activity beyond it I could tell it wasn't as heavily fortified as the door. I crouched down and took the KA-BAR from my boot.
It took less than a minute to cut away a torso-sized portion of the wall. Beyond was a second layer of the same substance. Why the Americans called this brittle stuff Sheetrock always amused me. Using only the tip of my knife, I bored a small circle in the plaster and peered into Petoskey's hideout.
As if on cue, Rink stopped firing. Makes me wonder if the link we share exceeds mere intuition and laps at the shore of the preternatural. Then again, he may have been reloading his shotgun. Whatever, the lull in activity was just what I needed.
Through my peephole, I could see an open room that ran the breadth of the building. A group of men gathered by a second doorway at the far end had to be the hired guns. Their attention was on the stairwell below them. Two more men held pit bull terriers on leashes. The dogs were blood-soaked and torn in a number of places. Unconcerned by the madness of humans, they strained at their leashes to continue their own private war. That meant that the final three men standing by a jerry-built arena in the center of the floor were the highfliers. One of them had to be Sigmund Petoskey.
Okay, quick calculation and what did I have?
Ten men in total.
Two dogs.
It wasn't the most difficult summation.
The real question was: Could I handle them all?
Whether or not I was capable wasn't an issue. I was going to, and that was it.
18
when i was a small child, i lived in a home poor in money but rich in love. What my parents were unable to provide in fine food and modern conveniences, they made up for with hugs and kisses and quality time spent with their only child. I don't miss having little in the way of material belongings, but I do miss my dad.
After my dad died and my mother remarried, things changed. I still didn't possess the treasures children yearn for, but I did get a little brother. But then it was my brother who got more of the hugs and kisses. And I looked elsewhere for comfort.
My father instilled in me a love of books. Where other kids got stereo record players and portable TVs in their bedrooms, I had a collection of dog-eared novels passed down to me by my dad. Poe, Lovecraft, and R. E. Howard were my favorites. Next in line came the comic book superheroes that I grew into when a newspaper
