Death's Reckoning (40 page)

“Bah!” he said and waved his hands at them, wondering where his smokes were. “Where’s my damn drink? Shit.”

It wasn’t worth going back in for it, plus they would fight him. Someone should get it for him anyway. That cur Marko owed everything he had to Jerrod. The midget should be serving Jerrod drinks like a serving wench. The thought of the masculine Marko wearing a skirt made Jerrod snigger.

Jerrod shook his head, to hell with his drink, and he started walking back to his temporary living quarters at a tavern, called the Drunken Sailor, only four blocks away. On busier nights he had taken to sleeping there. It was much closer to the arena than his cabin, which seemed a thousand leagues away, but there would be time for it later.

He had in place a plan to hand off the full time duties of crowd control to Marko, and then he could sit back and let the money come to him with no fear of any greedy hands sticking their fingers into what didn’t belong to them.

Jerrod stopped as a figure stepped from out of an alleyway right in front of him. Jerrod sniffed twice and rubbed his nose, still drunk and becoming more pissed off by the second. But now he was wary. Zandor wouldn’t show up like this out of nowhere without reason. The whip thin man, lean and as strong as one of the arena fighters, strolled down the street and stopped seven paces away. His dark eyes peered under his hood at Jerrod.

“Just what the hell you think yer lookin’ at?” Jerrod said and spit to the side.

Zandor seemed to sigh and shook his head. “I’m looking at the most miserable son of a bitch that ever found its way down the crack of a woman’s ass, truth be told.”

Jerrod scoffed. “Truth? Honest one, you are.”

“You stupid, stupid, bastard. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Always pushing people around like you own the place. You’re so full of hate, you have to fight everything in the world.”

Jerrod felt a flush of anger rise to his cheeks. He put his hand on his sword but didn’t draw. “What are you on about?”

Zandor looked to the side, only a tiny flick of his head. Jerrod felt a premonition. An instinct gleaned from all his accumulated years of fighting and surviving on the streets. He backed up a step, hand still ready.

“You coulda had anything,” Zandor said, sounding almost sad. “You
did
have everything, dumb bastard. But now people are tired of dealing with your bullshit, Jerry. I’ve heard enough about it. It’s time.”

Jerrod pulled his sword and stumbled, banging into the wall. His head felt thick, feet unsteady. Damn drink. Confusion hovered over his thoughts.

“You… you shut yer… damn mouth, Zandor. I ain’t gotta… I ain’t….”

Zandor put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He kicked at a rock on the ground and sounded disappointed. “So predictable, Jerry. It makes me sad. I thought about letting you choose to shove off and leave, but you ain’t got the sense of a dog. You’d never let it go.”

Jerrod steadied his feet and breathed heavy, anger clouding his judgment, seeing nothing but red. “You don’t talk to me that way. Nobody does!”

He stopped backing away and charged forward like the drunken fool he was. Zandor’s side stepped was easy, almost casual, but he still didn’t draw a weapon. Instead he slammed a stiff forearm against Jerrod’s shoulder and shoved him further out to the side.

The smaller man was much stronger than appearances would lead one to believe, and the move turned Jerrod hard to the side putting him off balance, but he wasn’t
that
drunk. He spun with the force of momentum that the shove gave him and squared up with Zandor a moment later. But he wasn’t facing only Zandor. Two other men stepped from the shadows, two bona-fide assassins.

In fact, he thought he recognized one of them, even with the hood pulled down. But, his befuddled mind couldn’t register what was seen clear enough to place him. It didn’t matter. They had him; everyone in that alleyway knew it. This was a classic set up, something Jerrod had done to people dozens of times. No doubt another man was somewhere behind him, cutting off any chance of retreat. Jerrod was dead, caught flatfooted and off balance. That’s how it worked. They plied their trade in teams of threes, this one ran by Zandor, an ultimate master, one that taught Jerrod.

Jerrod tried to clear his mind and settle his fear; no, it wasn’t fear but acceptance. No! You know how they operate, what they do, their tactics, use that, idiot!

Zandor stood in the center of his group, short sword and dagger in hand. He was steady, patient, waiting for Jerrod to make the first move. His mistake and a clue to his thoughts.

The two assassins swung around to the side, flanking him. Another clue for Jerrod in how they planned to come at him. Most people that knew how to fight and were outnumbered would head for one opponent alone, thinking to take one out fast before the others closed in. That was the trap the assassins used against canny opponents. Even Jerrod couldn’t cut one down fast enough. They would fight in a defensive manner until the other arrived to kill you.

Jerrod stood his ground. “Come and get me, you punks.”

They obliged, stepping in close and stabbing with their knives, quick as striking snakes. Jerrod took a big step forward, right in between them and kicked to the side but failed to connect with his large boot. It was meant only as a delay and spacing.

It gave him room to move, and he closed with the man he tried to kick who was already in a defensive posture. Right where Jerrod wanted him. He feinted high with his sword, and when the man went up to block, Jerrod dropped his weapon and dove forward as hard as he could, tackling the smaller man.

The surprising move caught the man off guard, and Jerrod smothered his opponent to the ground, head butting him over and over several times. He drove his fist into his throat. The assassin went limp, and Jerrod rolled off him and jumped back to his feet, pulling his sword in the process.

One down. Not dead but unconscious and out of the fight.

Zandor got involved then, and the three of them continued their circling dance. Jerrod blinked his eyes several times, trying to shake off the effects of his heavy imbibing, and his head was indeed clearer. Adrenaline had a funny way of shocking the system. But it wouldn’t be enough.

They closed in. There was a chance at survival, but speed was everything. His quick dispatching of the other man made Zandor and his partner much more wary. They thought to catch him off guard and drunk. They had the drop, but Jerrod was a hard kill. Zandor should have known better.

They had another man with them for certain, one who was moving into position while they kept him occupied. Jerrod made a calculated decision and bolted away from them down the alley. Fine, let them trap him between them, let him run right into it, at least it gave him more time to sober up. Then they would have a fight on their hands.

He reached the end of the street and was about to turn left at the alley when something hard struck him in the side of the head. The big man crashed to the ground, dazed and bloody. They had him. It was over, and Jerrod found he wasn’t all that fazed by the fact.

Someone yanked back his head with a hand on his forehead and exposed his vulnerable neck. He felt the cold steel of a dagger pressed against his throat and then heard shouting. A heavy body slammed into his attacker, and they went tumbling. More shouting. Other men came, pushing and shoving and fighting. Harsh screams of pain and strife struck the air.

Jerrod put a hand on his head, and it came away bloody. His ears were ringing, his vision blurry. He tried to sit up and look around, but he was unable. More shouting; more cries of pain; and metal on metal, flesh on flesh. There were a lot of people mucking about in the alley and adjoining street.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up. Jerrod was too stunned to fight back. “Sir! Are you alright?”

It was Marko, and the strong arms of his lead tough got Jerrod to a sitting position. Blood trickled down the side of his head as he sat up, and he put his hand there to stop his brains from spilling out.

“Yeah, fine,” he said and looked at Marko. The stocky man squatted down in the street and stared toward the alley.

“That guy that cut you ran off, sir. We sent some boys after them, but I don’t know. The man might get away, he was pretty fast.”

Jerrod let himself be helped up by Marko. This man was strong and loyal. Not like Zandor, traitorous swine. Jerrod was glad this happened. They had almost taken him down. Almost. That was on Zandor. Now that all their cards were on the table, Jerrod could go all in. It was better that way. No more skulking about. No more holding back.

Jerrod’s smile was grim as he made eye contact with Marko. “We got some more work to do, kid.”

“Yes sir!”

* * * * *

The desk was clean and organized. Several quills lay on the right, lined up ready for use. The inkpot was full. Papers, both used and empty, lay in two separate stacks. They’d given him a room in city hall, his own room, and Muldor doubted he would ever return to his old office near the docks.

There was no returning to what was past.

The Guild Master stood by the window and looked out at the street. He could almost see the shipping yards from his angle. The tallest mast of one of the new galleons, a warship being prepared for battle, poked out. The faint clack of hammers on nail and the dim shouting of working men echoed back.

They were almost finished. Soon, Sea Haven would have a worthy naval force that could challenge any comers, Janisberg or otherwise. Everyone on the council had agreed. It was time to put the past behind him and see this preparation through to the end.

The king might become involved. Cassius doubted it since the king’s own cousin Damour was now an integral part of the council. There was no need for a regent, for they had what they needed to manipulate the crown. That’s what Cassius told him, anyway. Muldor had no argument against the claim.

Whatever the cost, it was worth it to protect the men and women, the common workers and merchants who sold their goods at market, from the predications of the rest of the world. Now city and guild were one. There was no reason to fight it any longer. Whatever happened in the future, all of them would succeed or fail together. Their fates were intertwined.

The last words of Raul Parker came to him at that moment. “The city would burn,” he had said.

Months ago, Muldor would have scoffed at the idea. There were good people here, people worth saving, people worth fighting for.

As he watched the sun fade in the distance, heard the work continuing in the shipping yards, Muldor wasn’t sure he believed that anymore. Maybe they did deserve to burn, right down to the final bit of ash and to be blown away into the sea. This city was dirty and corrupt. The people were too, a product of their environment, sure, but apathetic to the point of absurdity. He wondered how long they could stand up against the tide that was coming.

-END

Begin book four,
Rogues Gallery
, now!

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Other Books by Will Molinar

* * * MURDER HAVEN SERIES* * *

Den of Thieves

Gallows Pole

Death’s Reckoning

Rogues Gallery

Lair of Killers

About The Author

Will Molinar was born in Indiana. After graduating from Indiana University in 1999 with a B.A. in English, Will moved to Los Angeles to write screenplays. During this time, he wrote and published seven Gothic Fantasy novels. He also met his wife and after they married, moved to New York City to pursue other goals, including recording a voice over demo and having their first child. The Murder Haven series combines his love for both the macabre and criminal genres.

Will served in the United States Army Reserve as a combat engineer and medic. He has also competed in natural bodybuilding contests and has worked as a personal trainer since 2003.