Brood made their first appearance in the auditorium— And then the doors blew open with plastic explosive charges, and members of the Brood streamed into the room, up and over the sandbag barricades, automatic weapons blazing, eyes wild with speed, screaming like the murderous maniacs they'd become.
Moody, in his way, loved his kids… but this was a lost cause. He now began to wonder if he himself could survive, and get to the Heart of the Ocean, in its hiding place, and somehow slip out into the night.
Then Tippett aided him in this self-serving effort: the bodyguard threw himself on Moody and took them both down to the floor, shielding the leader with his own body. Wedged to the floor, like that, Moody bitterly watched the massacre unfold…
All around him, bullets were shaking young bodies like rag dolls and then discarding them, flinging them dead to the floor. The Brood fanned out in murderous waves, gunning down anyone who moved, including those who had raised their hands in surrender. Over the gunfire, Moody could make out screams and pleas for mercy and, worst of all, crying. The acrid odor of cordite seemed to singe the air, the gun smoke creating a fog through which the Brood roamed like well-armed homicidal zombies.
Like a crazed Davy Crockett in his last Alamo moments, Gabriel swung a chair back and forth; but furniture was no match for machine guns, and Moody watched helplessly as at least thirty slugs slammed into Gabe, making him do a terrible dance, lifting him off the floor to deposit him in a bloody heap not far from Moody's face.
Gabe's blank eyes stared at Moody accusingly…
The gunfire was subsiding, only an occasional
now, as an occasional living Clan member was spotted, like the last few firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
In his knee-length brown leather coat and snakeskin boots, Mikhail Kafelnikov— his high-cheekboned features looking carved and cruel— seemed to glide down the incline of the auditorium floor, a wraith in a yellow silk shirt emerging from the gun-smoke fog. He surveyed the carnage— they were all dead now, the Chinese Clan… almost all, anyway…
One of the Brood, a skinny clear-eyed lieutenant, came up to their leader, who batted the snout of the automatic weapon away.
“Sorry,” the lieutenant said. “No sign of the girl.”
“Check all the corpses— careful! If she's alive, and playing dead, you'll have a wildcat on your hands. Remember the briefing!”
The mention of Max inspiring him, Moody suddenly revealed himself, by pushing his bodyguard off and getting to his feet, (while surreptitiously slipping a knife from his boot, keeping it tucked in his palm and half up his sleeve).
Several Broodsters, eyes glittering with gore and drugs, moved in quickly, raising their guns, but Kafelnikov shouted, “No! You were told!”
Two burly Brood boys latched onto Tippett's arms and hauled him to his feet. The big former linebacker had no fight left in him— his eyes were on the floor… the sight of the slaughtered kids, all 'round, appeared too much for him.
Slowly, Moody approached the Russian, planted himself a few feet away, folded his arms, the knife out of sight. He said, “You told them not to kill me. I'm not surprised.”
“And why is that, Moody?”
The Clan leader ignored the question, saying, “I always suspected you were a barbarian.” He glanced around the room at the dozens of dead kids, their blood streaming down the slope of the theater floor like spilled soft drinks. “You've confirmed it.”
The Brood leader let out a small chuckle. “Bravado to the last… I appreciate that, Moody. I'd almost say you've earned a quick death.”
A bitter smile etched itself on the well-grooved face. “You're not about to kill me, Mikhail… not yet.”
An eyebrow arched, an amused half smile formed. “You're right. After all… we have business.”
Looking around at his slaughtered family, Moody asked, “Really? And why would I bother doing business with a butcher?”
“Because you are at heart a man of self-interest, Moody… despite the the ‘loyalty' drivel you fed your ‘family.' And you have two things that interest me.”
“The necklace,” Moody said.
“Yes, and… ”
“The girl. Max. I heard… why?” Moody's eyes narrowed and he studied the Russian's narrow, handsome face. “Revenge? Did she embarrass you on your home turf? How sad for you.”
Kafelnikov snapped his fingers. A circle of Broodsters formed around them— automatic weapons everywhere Moody looked. Not much he could do with the knife… perhaps slash the Russian's throat, and maybe try to claim leadership…
Somehow he didn't think that would play, even in a movie theater.
“Where,” the Russian asked, “is the necklace?”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you… but I've already sold it. That deal is done. And the money is not on the premises. It was a Swiss bank transfer, and—”
Kafelnikov nodded once and the two burly Broodsters holding on to Tippett released him, stepping away from the bodyguard. Moody frowned, wondering what that was about…
The Russian's hand came up and an automatic was in it; he fired, to the left of Moody, where Tippett stood.
The bodyguard's scream echoed even as the shot rang in the auditorium, as Tippett grabbed for his leg, a red flower blossoming between the fingers that clutched at his right knee.
Moody's fingers tightened, now white around the handle of the hidden knife. He took a tentative step but froze when he heard several guns cock. Tippett was quiet now, his hands still holding his shattered joint.
“I'm okay, Moody,” the bodyguard managed. “Don't you worry 'bout me.”
“You were saying?” the Russian said to Moody.
“I was saying… I already dealt the Heart of the Ocean… but I can lead you to the buyer. You can get it back from him… kill his ass, for all I care.”
Again Kafelnikov raised the gun, fired, and Tippett screamed as another report reverberated in the auditorium and crimson petals bloomed from the other knee. Tippett went down hard on the cement, and he whimpered there, like a whipped dog.
“Moody,” the Russian sighed, “I don't underestimate your intelligence… why do you do me the disservice of insulting mine? I know who your
buyer was… he negotiated a better price with me, at the same time he was negotiating more time from you, supposedly to raise sufficient funds to meet your outrageous fee. So… I need to deliver the Heart of the Ocean to him… where is the diamond, Moody?”
“Tell me, Mikhail,” Moody asked. “Don't your men find that yellow shirt a bit… effeminate?”
The Russian frowned and fired, bullets stitching across Tippett's groin and thighs and the bodyguard now rolled around in agony, screaming for them to kill him, go ahead, kill him; but no one moved.
“Where is the
” Kafelnikov asked over the screams, his voice more brittle now.
By way of an answer, Moody spun and hurled the knife…
… into his bodyguard's chest.
Tippett whispered, “Got some moves, Moody,” closed his eyes, and slipped away.
Kafelnikov leapt forward, and slapped Moody with the automatic.
A gash ripped in his cheek, Moody went down on one knee, as if about to be knighted by the Russian, who instead grabbed Moody's silver ponytail and yanked him down, smashing the older man's face into the concrete floor. Moody made only a tiny moan as he pushed himself up, his nose broken, blood streaming down the front of his black shirt.
“If you won't tell me where the necklace is,” Kafelnikov said, “at least tell me where the girl is.”
