A Bomb Built in Hell

right wrist and snapped the other over the girl’s left before she could react.

“Hey!” she yelped.

“Shut up. It won’t be for long—I don’t want either of you to move. Now we’ve got about ten minutes for you to tell me what I need to know,” he said to the black man.

“And what’s that?” the black man said, calm and in control.

“You going to meet the Prince when you leave here. Where?”

“Man, you’re not serious!”

Wesley leveled the piece at the girl’s forehead and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft-ugly splat! and her body was wrenched backward, almost pulling the black man with her. The top of her head was gone—fluid ran over the opening in her skull. The black man frantically shifted his weight to keep dry.

“I’m very serious,” Wesley said softly. “The next one’s yours.”

“Man, don’t do anything like that, listen....”

Wesley cocked the piece again, held it in both hands pointed at the black man’s upturned face. His facial muscles tightened....

“Under the Times Clock! On 43rd. Between Seventh and Eighth! Don’t!”

“What time?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Who gets there first?”

“He does, man. He always—”

The bullet hit the black man at the bridge of his nose. His death was as soundless as the shot. Wesley shifted the piece to his left hand and squatted by the bodies. He carefully slit each throat and wiped the blade on the velour jumpsuit. He shook talcum powder onto his hands and pulled on a pair of the surgeon’s gloves. Then, still holding the gun, he wiped every surface in the room with the black handkerchief—it took only about forty-five seconds. He knelt by the door to listen; there was still no sound from the front room.

Wesley slipped down the corridor. As he entered the front room he saw the clock over the desk said 11:20; his own watch said that was a couple of minutes fast. The fat man at the desk looked up as Wesley approached.

“Just about to call you, buddy.”

Wesley fired. The first slug caught the fat man in the chest; his head dropped to the desk. The second bullet entered the top of his head. Wesley was about to walk out the door when he remembered the Marine and put another bullet into the fat man’s left ear socket. Even in the thin-walled parlor, the shots were virtually soundless. Wesley exchanged clips, then carefully pocketed the spent casings.

46/

Wesley turned right on 43rd. He noticed the clock in the package store said 11:23; his Rolex tallied with this, and he slowed a bit. The still-assembled piece was now tucked into his belt. By sharply drawing a breath, he could pull it free without trouble.

He lay back in the shadows until he saw 11:29 on his watch, then mentally counted to fifteen and started to walk up the right-hand side of the block toward the Times Building. The big digital clock read 11:31, and he saw the Prince standing underneath, legs spread and arms extended. His left hand gripped his right wrist and Wesley could see the diamond-flash.

One hundred feet. The Prince was focused on him now, but the Wesley he had seen was a tourist geek in a Hawaiian shirt. Wesley padded softly forward on the dark street—the silenced piece wasn’t accurate over more than forty feet.

Fifty feet. Suddenly, the Prince spun and was running up the street almost before Wesley even saw the movement. Wesley sprinted after him. The silenced pistol cut into his groin, but he didn’t slow—if the Prince got to contact one of his freaks, the whole thing would be over.

The Prince wasn’t used to running—by the corner of 43rd and Eighth, Wesley was only about ten yards behind. His target glanced west for a split-second, then, seeming to understand that he was running out of cesspool in that direction, he turned north on Eighth and dashed across 44th toward the Playbill Bar. Wesley hit the bar seconds behind the Prince, spotted him trying for the phone booth to the left of the door, brought the gun up just as the Prince saw him and dove for the Eighth Avenue door.

Wesley backed out of the 44th Street door and hit Eighth just in time to see the Prince flying up Eighth, this time on the west side of the street. The street was clogged with people and the Prince was better at moving through human traffic, but he couldn’t disappear and Wesley was too close for him to stop and get help.

The Prince dashed into the custard stand on 49th and Eighth and immediately exited out the side door. He tore up the side street toward the river. Wesley was close enough now but running too fast to get a clear shot. The Prince looked back quickly without breaking stride and jumped the fence that enclosed the parking lot between 49th and 50th. He was halfway across the lot, heading toward Polyclinic Hospital, when Wesley stopped, braced himself, and fired—but the Prince was bobbing and weaving and the shot missed. Wesley clawed his way over the fence and set himself for another shot, but the Prince seemed to sense this and veered sharply left just before the hospital entrance, steaming up 50th toward Ninth with Wesley again close behind.

The Prince turned right again at Ninth, just slightly ahead of Wesley, who could now run faster with his gun out. Between 50th and 51st was a construction site, partially excavated. The expensively painted sign read something about YOUR TAX DOLLARS. The Prince was over the fence and into the site in a heartbeat. He looked back and couldn’t see Wesley. For the first time since he’d been spooked, the Prince felt a quick jolt of fear to go with the adrenalin.

Wesley had seen the Prince’s move and had rushed up 50th, instead of going up Ninth. He was into the site before the Prince.

The streetlights didn’t penetrate the excavation—it was the same kind of soft-dull darkness Wesley