Black Rust (25 page)

When a man says, ‘Don’t move, asshole,’ it sounds like he’s giving orders, but what he’s mostly doing is trying to convince his buddies and the guy he’s talking to that he’s a harder man than he is.  He’s silently praying the situation doesn’t escalate.  He’s on ground he hasn’t tread before.  He doesn’t know what to do next, doesn’t know if he can pull that trigger, doesn’t know if he can kill, doesn’t know if his friends will support him or rat him out, doesn’t know if he can do hard time, doesn’t know if he’ll muck it up somehow and get killed. 

When the reaper stalks, amateurs quake.  Their fear fills the air around them.

That was the nervous guy’s problem.

Not mine.  I wasn’t afraid.

I never am when these things go down.

Death doesn’t rattle me—not the possibility of my own, not the act of gifting it to someone too afraid of life to ask for it.

“You got me, asshole?” Mr. Nervous with the gun asked, because I didn’t react to his previous imperative. 

If he’d been a logical man, he wouldn’t have asked that second question, because he’d have known I was following his previous instruction already.

If he’d been a smart man, he’d have taken three or four steps back, or never put the gun against my skull in the first place.

If he’d been a hard man, he’d have killed me already.

For my part, I’d already counted his buddies.  They were trading irrelevant macho boasts and congratulations.  They’d nabbed the cartel hitman.  They were proud.

Too soon for hugs and hand jobs, boys.

The sounds of their voices told me which of them was cool, and which was nervous, which needed to die first, which could wait at the end of the queue.  They were all too noisy, footsteps crunching leaves, denim on pants legs rasping with each step, breathing loud or slow.  They freely gave me all I needed to know.

There were four of them—a pitiful number. 

Mr. Nervous, the one behind me with a gun didn’t have a reserved spot on my kill list.  His spot wasn’t for my choosing, though if I did everything right, he’d be last. 

The guy off my right shoulder, eight paces back, would die first.  He wasn’t nervous.  If anything, he was impatient.  I’d heard him huff softly just after his amateur buddy, Mr. Nervous, made the mistake of talking instead of pulling the trigger.  He was the most lethal of the bunch.

The one off my left shoulder, a little farther away—Mr. Anxious—would die second.  He was eager to do something.  He had something to prove to somebody.  He’d act too hastily to fire an accurate shot.

The guy on the trail, a little behind and off to my left side, maybe twenty paces out, would go third, though that depended on how much of himself he had hidden behind Sienna.  That was the part that bothered me the most—I’d been so distracted by Lutz’s bullshit I hadn’t heard him bringing her up the trail.  I’d have to beat myself up about that later, though.  By the sound of it, he maybe had an arm around her throat and was shuffling her forward, ahead of him.  Holding her, he’d not be able to get an accurate shot off.

In the span of a few seconds, I had my plan.  All I needed to do was wait for the prompt.

Human reaction time is about a quarter-second, depending.

People tend to have one-track minds.  If you catch someone while their brain is busy doing something, then reaction time is a little slower because they have to get off the track they’re on before they switch to reacting to the new stimulus. 

I wasn’t going to need the extra time, but I do like my insurance when I can get it.

“Hey, asshole,” Mr. Nervous started on his new track, “you hear—”

I snapped my head in a turn to the right to move it quickly from in front of the gun barrel—safe.

I spun to my right as I moved my head, swinging up my right arm to get control of Mr. Nervous’s gun hand.

I drew one of my pistols with my left hand, and as I came around, Mr. Lethal was in the first syllable of his “Oh, shit” thought, which came right before he would have decided to target me and pull his trigger.  He never got past the word, “shit.”  My first bullet punched a hole through his face.

Still spinning with my momentum, keeping Mr. Nervous off balance and between me and Mr. Anxious, I fired my second shot through Mr. Anxious’s throat.

Hostage Boy came into my pistol sight next, and I saw him standing mostly behind Sienna—left arm around her throat, old-timey long-barrel revolver in his right hand, not pointing at Sienna, not pointing at me.  His aim was way off because he was pressed against someone who was just starting to duck, and it threw him off balance.

The bullet I fired tore through his forearm, shattered his elbow, and blew a red haze out the back of his tricep.

Off balance from the spin I put him into by torquing his outstretched arm, facing away from me with feet twisted, Mr. Nervous fell, and my pistol followed him down, sending a round through the back of his head before he hit the ground.

I planted my feet, put both hands on my pistol and scanned in an arc across the trees and the targets I’d just downed.

No movement.

“Holy shit!” It was Lutz.  His reaction time was slow.

Sienna finished dropping to the ground.

The big cowboy pistol dropped from Hostage Boy’s hand at the end of the destroyed arm and hit the dirt.  Hostage Boy was still spinning from the momentum of the bullet that had hit his arm and the last instruction his brain had sent to his body—get behind the girl.

He finally fell.

I rushed over to him, careful to step around Sienna.

The guy was on his back, his crumbled straw cowboy hat on the trail a few feet past his head.  He was looking up at me.

I dropped down and put a knee in the center of his chest.  “You must be Goose.”

He spat something unintelligible.

“It’s him,” Sienna said.  “That’s Goose.”

“Where’s your boss?” I asked.

“Where do ya think?” Goose snarled, through what had to be a flaming shitload of pain.

Wasted bravado.

I smashed the barrel of my gun through Goose’s teeth and jammed it into his mouth.

Goose howled.  Blood, spit, and bits of teeth spewed out.

I pulled the barrel back out of his mouth.  “Where’s Workman, your boss?”

Goose put a hand over his mouth as he coughed and spit.  He said something I didn’t understand.

“Try again, Goose.”  I pressed the barrel of my gun against his cheek, just below his eye.

“Admin,” Goose managed.  “Office.”

“He’s in his upstairs office,” Sienna interpreted.

Good enough.  I stood up, pointed my pistol at Goose’s head and pulled the trigger.

I holstered the pistol and raised my rifle, scanning again.  I stopped on Lutz, who was wearing a perverse smile and eyeing Mr. Nervous’s pistol, still gripped in the dead man’s hand.

“Every time I see you shoot,” said Lutz, “damn!”

“Sienna,” I asked, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” she told me in a distant voice. 

“Go over there,” I told her, “Frisk Lutz.”

“Not necessary,” said Lutz. 

Probably true.  I’d already frisked him.  He’d had little time to pick up a gun.  But I was tired of paying for mistakes.  I told him, “Necessary.” 

Sienna hurried past me.

“Hands in the air, Lutz,” I ordered.  “All the way up.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” said Lutz.

Sienna quickly ran her hands over Lutz’s clothes.  She gave me a nod.  “Nothing.”

“Lutz, how’d you get here?” I asked.

He vaguely pointed at the corpses.  “They drove.”

“How many guys are in the woods?” I asked.  “Let’s be honest now.  You’ve already passed your bullshit limit with me.”

“You’ll get no more lies from me,” said Lutz, smiling as though seeing Goose and his buddies dead was the best thing that had happened to him all day.  Hell, maybe it was.  “There aren’t any trustees in the woods.  I lied about that.  It’s just us.  Goose said something about them having a farm to run and needing to get back to work.”

“Okay, Lutz, let’s go see this Workman prick.”  I glanced at Sienna.  “We can drop you at your car.  You might want to get off the farm.  Illegal things are going to happen.”

Sienna looked pointedly at the bodies on the ground.

I shrugged.  “Premeditated, illegal things.”

“You should go,” Lutz told her.

“What?” I looked at Lutz, surprised.  All day long, he’d been doing nothing but encouraging me to kill her and now he wanted her to go.  Fucking Lutz.

Sienna ignored him.  “Let’s go see Workman.” 

My kind of girl.

The Mercedes was closer to us than the truck Goose and his knuckleheads had driven to find Sienna and me.  Once we found it, still parked between a couple of tall pines, I realized it had been ransacked.  Everything it held could be replaced, but the one thing I hoped to get—now the killing had started—was a good load of magazines.  I always like to have more than I think I’ll need.  Unfortunately, the prison’s trustees had taken my spare ammunition as well.

I instructed Sienna to get in the back seat and buckle up.  Over Lutz’s protests, I told him to get in the passenger seat in front where I could keep an eye on him.

“If you think I’m going to pull something,” said Lutz, “do you think you can stop me if you’re driving?”

“Roll the dice, buddy.”  I patted the butt of one of my pistols.  I wasn’t sure what to do with Lutz.  Idiot or liar, I just didn’t know, but I was going to get to the bottom of it when I finally got him and Workman together in the same room.  Then I’d kill one or both of them.  “Now get in the fuckin’ passenger seat.”

Lutz did.  Sienna seated herself in the back.

I took the driver’s seat, buckled my belt, started up the Mercedes, and gunned the engine before tearing backward out of the trees, skidding across red dirt and pine needles.  I glanced back toward Sienna.  “Buckle up back there. 

Lutz decided that was good advice, too.

Moments later, I was speeding up the dirt road toward the admin complex.  “We’ve only got a few minutes.”  I glanced at Sienna in the rearview mirror.  “You said Workman will be in that two-story admin building, right?”

“Yes.”  She wrapped her fingers tightly around a handgrip over her passenger side window and stretched the other hand out to hold onto the seat in front.  She didn’t complain about the speed.

I gave Lutz a hard look.  “You’re quiet.  Shouldn’t you be bitching about your precious Mercedes?”

“Just don’t kill us.”  Lutz slouched down in his seat, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“What do you got in there?” I asked him.

“My dick,” he spat.

“Sienna, are you sure he wasn’t armed?”

“Sure,” she told me.

I drew a pistol with my left hand and laid it in my lap, gripped it, and pointed the barrel at Lutz.  I drove with the right hand only.  “Tell me more about this place.”  I glanced at Sienna in the rearview mirror.  “Where will I find Workman in there?  What does he look like?”

“He’s tall,” she said.  “Wide-shouldered.  Old guy.  Big gut.  Looks like a politician.”

“Anybody else look like him who works there?” I asked.

“No.”  She thought about it for another moment before shaking her head emphatically.  “No.”

“Where will he be?”

“He’ll probably be in his office on the second floor.”

“How do I get there?” I asked.

“Elevator at the back of the lobby.  Stairs in the corner.”

“If I ram this thing through the glass wall on the front of the building, will I hit anything?  Concrete support poles, that kind of shit?”

“No,” she told me.  “Nothing in the lobby but furniture and Irene’s desk.”

“You like Irene?” I asked.  “She might get hurt.”

“It won’t break my heart.”  Sienna almost smiled.

I laughed.

“You should know,” said Lutz, “there are guys outside with rifles.  Six or seven.”

“Really?” I glanced over at him.  “Is that where you and Workman made your bullshit plans?  In his office?”

Lutz nodded.

“Any gunmen inside?” I asked.

Lutz shook his head.

I jiggled the gun in my lap.  “Let’s be honest, now.”

“None were inside when I was there.”

I glanced back at Sienna.  “When we get there, you get down.”  I grinned.  “Behind Lutz’s seat might be your safest place.”

I pulled off the main road and followed a narrow driveway that curved gently among the oaks before spreading into a small parking lot in front of the admin building’s glass face.  Across the front of the building a giant sign proclaimed, ‘BLUE BEAN FARMS, HAPPY PEOPLE, HAPPY FOOD.’  Several cars were parked in the lot, off to one side, not in my way.  Four hover bikes were parked on the asphalt, not really in my way, but not out of it either. 

One of the riflemen Lutz mentioned was leaning on a hover bike, smoking a cigarette, looking into the distance, rifle in his lazy hands.  Another rifleman stood in front of him, talking and gesturing.  I spotted two more at the front door and another walking around the corner to the side of the building.

Not one of them had noticed the black Mercedes speeding up the driveway.

That would change. 

No matter how lazy a man, it’s hard not to notice a three-ton box of black steel bearing down on him.

I figured I’d screw with Lutz.  Sometimes I get bored when I’m keyed-up to fight but things aren’t yet happening.  “What do you think, forty?”

“For what?” he asked, pressing his feet against the floorboard as if an extra set of brakes were on his side.

“For parking inside.”

“Shit.”  Lutz braced himself against the dashboard.

Sienna shuffled in the back, getting ready for the impact.

“Fifty?” I asked.  “Sixty?” I wasn’t going to go in that fast but it was fun seeing Lutz squirm. 

We were maybe a hundred yards out when I saw a muzzle flash.  A bullet pierced the windshield dead-center and broke the back window as it passed through the SUV.

Gunmen ahead started to scramble.

The one who’d been leaning on the hover bike was too cool to jump and run when his buddies started to panic.  He took an unconcerned look over his shoulder as he flicked the ash off his cigarette.  His mistake.  His hand-waving buddy dove to the left.

The Mercedes smashed into the pair of buzz bikes on the right, sending pieces flying in all directions.  The guy with the cigarette went under the wheels, and the Mercedes bounced but didn’t lose much speed.  The carbon-fiber bodies of the bikes were light.

More guns fired, but the shots were wild.  Nothing hit us.

We smashed the lobby’s glass wall, and it turned instantly opaque with cracks before shattering.

I mashed the brakes.

Tires squealed.

The support framework for the glass wall shrieked as it bent. 

The Mercedes skidded sideways into the lobby through an explosion of glass shards and came to a stop with the passenger side butted against the back wall.

I unbuckled my safety belt, flung my door open, and stepped out, scanning for targets.

The furniture that had been on the floor was broken and scattered.  The reception desk, built against a side wall, came through unscathed except for a layer of broken glass.  Lucky Irene.

I holstered my pistol and raised my rifle, pointing it at the SUV-sized hole we’d just made in the front of the lobby.  Four targets were still out there, possibly more behind the building.

Out on the asphalt, near the two remaining buzz bikes, a man with a rifle was getting off the ground.  He seemed dazed.

I fired three rounds.  He dropped.

No confusion now, buddy.

Nothing else moved that I could see except d-gens, some wandering over the lawns in the distance, most of them staring at the shattered glass on the front of the admin building.

I didn’t see the two armed men who’d been by the front door, but I knew they couldn’t be far out of my view.  I rushed to the hole I’d made where the door had been to get a glimpse from side to side.  I needed to get a bead on the two door guards before they recovered from the shock of what had just happened.

Scanning right to left, I spotted one hollering at his buddy across the parking lot.  Misplaced priorities with that one.  He should have had his weapon pointed at me.  I fired.  He died.

The buddy getting yelled at had apparently bumped his head while avoiding the Mercedes’ front bumper.  He died with three bullets in his chest.

I looked to my left.  A guy had been walking around to that side of the building.  He’d had the most time to put the pieces together.  He’d know he was in danger.  He’d be more careful.

I heard a man yell from that side of the building.  I heard another voice from over there.  Two guys, at least. 

I pointed my rifle, saw the barrel of a weapon come around the corner, a hand on a stock, an arm, a shoulder, and then a head.  I fired, turning the head into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. 

The next guy on that side would be a lot more careful before peeking out.  The sight of his dead buddy would keep him neutralized for a few moments.

I ran to my right, staying close to the cube-shaped building.  It wasn’t large.  I had a plan that would work if I executed it quickly.

I took the first corner wide, keeping my rifle pointed down the side of the building.  It was mostly bare concrete, painted white with few windows.  I spotted someone rounding the corner at the far end, going in the other direction to get to the back of the building.  He was in a big enough hurry I wasn’t able to squeeze off a shot.

I sprinted to the far end, once again taking the corner wide, keeping my aim down the side of the building as it came into view.  A steel door just at the corner was closed.  Plenty of windows on the back gave me pause, but only for a second.  I was going to run by too quickly for a real danger from within.

Guessing the guy I was chasing was already around the last corner, I sprinted toward it.  I slowed slightly as I stepped out from the wall and took the corner wide.

Down at the far end, just near the body of the man I’d shot from the other direction for trying to point his rifle at me, three armed men stood huddled, pointing toward the front of the building.  They were making a plan. 

Sorry, dipshits.  The time for planning was before the first shots were fired.

I pulled my trigger.  All three died.

No more armed men on the admin building’s perimeter. 

I took a hard look across the empty spaces between me and the other buildings, the nearest a few hundred yards away.  Nothing except a few d-gens, most of them running, frightened by the gunshots.

More trustees had to be around, and I knew they’d be coming soon.

As I ran down the side of the building, I carefully rounded the corner to the front again and didn’t see any dangers.  I had some time.

Running back into the lobby, I saw Sienna and Lutz were out of the Mercedes. 

Sienna pointed at an elevator against the back wall and then an open staircase up to the second floor.

I ran toward the stairs.

She shouted, “Double doors at the top.  You can’t miss them.”

I bounded up.  Lutz and Sienna followed.

Once on the second floor I immediately spotted the doors on one side of a nicely appointed waiting area.  More office doors opened off the waiting room.  A hallway led away from one corner.  Panicked voices came from that direction.  I crossed the lobby and took a look down the hall just in time to see a closing door at the end beneath an exit sign.

Office workers fleeing?  Probably.

Back to Workman’s double doors, I bet on speed and surprise.  I ran and hit the pair of doors dead-center with my shoulder and bounced back.

The doors shuddered but didn’t break.

I backed up and took another run. 

The doors burst open, but I stumbled, fell, and rolled, coming up on one knee with my rifle pointed at Workman’s empty desk chair.  I spun around and saw the office was empty, though a closed door on one side might hold danger.

I ran over, kicked it, and as it flew open, I leveled my rifle inside.  A plump, middle-aged woman with puffy black hair cowered in a glass-door shower stall.  No Workman. 
Damn!

“Where is he?” I growled.

Holding her hands over her face, the woman pleaded, “Don’t shoot me.  I’m just the receptionist.  Please.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“He…he ran out the door when…when…”

I had all the information I needed.  I ran out of the office, past Lutz and Sienna, and down the hall toward the exit sign, toward the back stairs.

I flung that door open to see two empty flights of steps.  I bounded down.  Workman couldn’t be far. 

I burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs and saw people running across the grass trying to get as far from the admin building as they could.  I aimed my rifle, pausing as I scrutinized each target.  None matched the description of Workman Sienna had given me. 

Next guess, back out front.  I ran down the side of the building toward the front, hearing a familiar sound as I went.

With my rifle up, I rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of a silvery coif of hair blowing in the wind as it raced away from me on the other side of the parked cars.  In the second it took me to understand what I was seeing, a big man on a blue and white hover bike rose up and disappeared behind the boughs of an oak. 

“Bastard!” It was Workman, awkwardly huge on the bike.  He was getting away and I couldn’t shoot because I couldn’t see him for the trees.