Last of the Mighty (16 page)

Ranger Rick spun around and staggered back at the sight of an eight-and-a-half-foot Watcher dressed in fine Italian casual wear. He goggled at the handsome giant in disbelief and awe.

When Chool arrived at his father's side, Rick drew his gun, slow and shaky. The muzzle bounced from the Nephilim's lumpy brow and clouded eyes to his chuck-holed cheeks and twisted nose.

“W-what's going o-on here?” said the ranger.

Shem ignored him. To me, he said, “Pleasure to see you again, Augustine.” He dipped his face in a polite curtsey.

Amos wasn't surprised at the way Shemja greeted me because I'd told him everything, of course. Everything minus Chool. I knew Chool would come for us. Wanted to surprise Amos with it. Wanted Amos's focus and adrenaline to hit an all-time high when he finally met his daughter's killer.

Amos recognized Chool immediately. His teeth gnashed and his lips peeled back. He scratched his throat and flexed his fingers. His nostrils flared, and Amos's hands went to fist.

I clasped his arm. “In time,” I whispered.

When Chool found Amos in his memory, the Nephilim's mouth warped into an amused squiggle as he re-lived what he'd done to Amos Booth's daughter.

“I SAID!” Rick's gun leveled at Shemja-za. “WHAT THE H—”

The arrival of Uzza, Barphook, Darkon, and Tartys silenced Rick and turned his knees to milk. He nearly went down.

I glanced at Amos. Six against two. Super.

“Og, my man!” It was Azazel.

Make that seven to two.

The others parted as Zaze whooshed by them and toward me, all smiles.

Ranger Rick was caught between Azazel and me.

“HALT!” The officer trained his gun at the blond nine-footer. Must have thought the Watcher was coming for him.

But Azazel kept coming, as if the ranger wasn't even there.

“I SAID!” The ranger backed up. “STOP!”

Azazel wouldn't listen. His eyes and smile shimmered at me, his arms out in anticipation of an embra—

BLAAAMM!

Azazel reeled. A bullet wound in the center of his chest. He swayed on his feet and gasped for breath, his confused eyes examining the smoking hole in his t-shirt.

“Dude,” he said to the stunned ranger, “that was like one of my favorite tees.” He was on Rick, cobra-quick. Seized him by the throat and lifted him to the ceiling.

The ranger emptied his gun into the Watcher's torso.

Azazel surveyed his shirt's new holes and shook his head. “Now that”—he placed a palm over each of the Rick's temples—“was just plain rude.” He squashed his hands deep into the man's skull. “Shooting an unarmed angel…” his eyes counted up the bullet holes, “six times? Honestly, what would your mother say?”

Rick dropped his firearm and clawed wildly at the hands crushing his brain. The ranger's mouth moved, but no words emerged.

“Zaze!” I shouted. “It's me you want. Let him go!”

Rick's legs kicked and his eyes bulged as Azazel applied more pressure.

“Hey!” I tried again.

But Zaze was in the zone. He tightened the vise a final time and the poor guy's skull shattered between the Watcher's enormous hands.

Ranger Rick stopped his twitching. His legs no longer flailed, and he hung from Azazel's grip like a man in a noose—with a gentle pendulum sway. As the pressure on his skull eased, Rick's bulging eyes settled back into their sockets and closed.

Azazel nonchalantly flicked the body away. The dead ranger pelted into the concrete wall, then tumbled down amongst blackjack tables.

“Now.” Azazel brushed off his hands. “Where were we?” He creased his brow and peered into the ceiling. “Oh yeah. Og.” He grinned at me. “Decision time.”

Azazel's team gathered behind him.

“You joining us or what?” he asked.

I went with the “or what.”

Zaze tried to shame me with the slow blink, pinched lips, and the slight turn of his chin. He had that disappointed father look down.

“You sure, bro?” He was so sincere. “I'm hatin' it that I gotta smoke you. Tell ya what. Flip ya for it. Heads, you switch teams.” He reached into his pocket, came out with a nickel. “Tails, and we're out. We postpone our little soirée till your leg's better.”

Man, did “tails” sound good.

I checked on Amos. His vengeful stare hadn't left Chool since he'd realized who the guy was. Now how could I rob Amos of the once-in-a-lifetime chance to chill with his daughter's killer? You know, swap stories, make some memories. Not even I was that heartless.

My eyes went back to Azazel. In response to his question, I simply shook my head.

Zaze turned to Shemja-za and Uzza, asked, “Mind if Phookie and Dark go first?”

Phookie and Dark. Azazel's pet names for his sons.

“Kids.” Azazel called and his children came forward.

I counted my blessings. If they were only sending in two at a time, Amos and I might get out alive. At least till the Watchers joined anyway. I hadn't a clue how to defeat Azazel, Shemja, and Uzza. It wasn't their size that bugged, it was their un-kill-ability. That and we had no idea if our holy relics were even authentic.

Amos and I dropped into our fighting stances, back to back. I put some weight on my bad thigh and a spike of pain wedged itself in there.

This was gonna suck.

Phookie and Dark stretched out their necks, arms, hamstrings, and shoulders. All casual. As if they were about to play softball rather than fight to the death.

I wanted to charge, but my leg wouldn't have it. I'd have to wait for them to come to me.

Barphook placed a set of modified brass knuckles on his left hand. The brass striking area had thick, pointed pyramids on each knuckle that jutted up like iron spear tips. On his right hand, Phookie placed another set of knuckles. From the jumbo aisle. Looked like a brass boxing glove.

Darkon removed his weapon of choice from a back pocket. I heard the chink of chain as he brought it around to the front. It was a hardwood baton with a thick chain fixed to the end of it. About two feet long. Add to that the spiked metal ball that swung from the chain's tip. The size of a cantaloupe.

They came at us.

Barphook angled for Amos.

Darkon targeted me, the spiky ball twirling in circles at the end of the chain. I looked into his saggy eyes and shuddered. It was like his face was made of melting wax. Everything flowing downward. His lower eyelids hung so low you could see the red flesh below the whites of his eyes. Beneath that, his smooth nose curved to the side, the end of it pointing down to a thick bottom lip that was turned inside out, swagging down so far it flapped against his chin.

“Ready?” I whispered to Amos.

He grunted. Said, “Le's finish ‘em off quick, huh? So they can send me tha' Chool fella.”

I tightened my grip on the jawbone, and waited for my adrenaline to flare. It did, and the slo-mo kicked in.

Just as Barphook and Darkon switched positions.

Suddenly, the brass knuckles were blasting for me and the spiky ball veering toward Amos.

I did not want Amos going up against the spikes. I threw my back against his and almost knocked the two of us over. Pushing Barphook's brass boxing glove out of the way, I then blocked the steel ball with the jawbone.

Good news was the spikes missed Amos's head. Barely.

Bad news was the metal ball shattered Samson's jawbone.

Poor Ducks. Taken advantage of by some greedy charlatan charging way too much for counterfeit relics. I hate that.

Amos and I regained our balance and I went after Darkon. Subtly. I opened my hands and acted like I was dead now that my one weapon was gone. I enticed him to come for me, and away from Amos, with my look of helplessness.

It worked.

I hobbled as far from Amos as I could, confident that my sidekick was good enough to fend off the brass knuckles. I'd already seen him use the ram's horn to bat away Phookie's brass fist four times.

Lucky Ducks. Looked like the shofar was the real deal, sold to them by an upstanding and fair businessman selling quality merchandise at reasonable prices. I love that.

I stooped and weaved, playing defense, more concerned with staying away from Amos and Barphook than attacking my opponent. Gave Darkon a few light cuffs to the midsection, but didn't want to lay into him with anything too hard for fear that he'd give up on me and go after the old guy instead.

Still, I couldn't do this all night. The longer this lasted, the weaker my leg, and Amos, would become. Had to find a way to beat down Darkon.

Or…

Disarm him.

The spiked ball came at me again. I dodged it and scrambled for the gaming tables against the wall. I'd seen something on one of the tables I could use to block Darkon's attack.

As soon as I turned around, I saw Amos slide by one of Barphook's punches then slam him in the ear with the ram horn. Phookie went down. Like a tree. Knees locked, torso straight.

Leaping on Barphook, Amos battered the Nephilim with fist, horn, forearm, and elbow. Reminded me of what I'd done to Tucker at Shem's place when I'd gone into that anger-fueled trance.

On the sidelines, Azazel lifted a trembling hand and covered his mouth, watching in horror as his son took one devastating blow after another.

I wondered if the ram's horn was partly responsible for Amos's savage fury. Joshua was the man who had led the Jericho siege with the shofars. He and his men were accustomed to throwing down with the Anakites and many other children of the Nephilim. Maybe Amos's horn knew a Nephilim when it saw one. Just a thought, but by the way that shofar was going for it, sure seemed like it.

Amos clubbed him again. There was a gristled pop of cheekbone breaking. He bashed Barphook over every inch of his face. Didn't take long for him to stove in the Nephilim's forehead, to knock clear nearly every tooth in his mouth.

Even after Barphook lost consciousness, Amos continued to thunder away, the horn splashing down in pools of blood and sending up showers of thick red slush like a volcano at a high school science fair.

After a few more strikes, Amos stopped his madman thrashing and looked up at Chool. While keeping his eyes on his daughter's killer, Amos took a firm grip of the ram horn and shoved the narrow end into Barphook's neck. Lifeblood flowed out of the Nephilim's throat like lava down a mountain.

Azazel cringed, turning away from the slaughter of his son.

I tuned into The Committee and got what I wanted. The horrific scream of Barphook's demon side plummeting into Pit.

Darkon had been facing me, his back to Amos and Barphook, and he hadn't seen what had happened to his brother.

“Darkon!” called Azazel.

The Nephilim flicked a quick glance at this father.

Azazel gestured to Barphook's body on the floor and yelled, “Avenge him!”

Darkon backed away from me and converged on Amos.

At the same time, Tartys was recruited as my opponent.

I feared for Amos's life. He had to be exhausted. As he stood to oppose Darkon and the steel ball, he looked like a maniac butcher after a long shift at the slaughterhouse. His hair, face, and overalls were spattered with sweat, grime, and blood.

Without my Mighty roots and advantages of slow motion, Amos's odds of surviving the next two minutes were zilch.

Frantic, I scanned the gaming tables for the thing I thought might help foil Darkon's spiked ball.

And there it was.

On the craps table.

Four feet long and plated in silver, a pair of dice resting in the small crook near the end of it.

Tartys saw my hand going for the dice stick on the craps table.

Didn't even try to stop me. Actually grinned a little. And why not? Hitting him with the thin, silver-plated cane would do about as much damage as swatting him with seaweed. Even with its silver coating, any kid playing circus strongman could break it in half with his bare hands.

Tartys dumped over a blackjack table and tore off one of its sturdy oak legs. Gripping the skinny end, he whacked the fat end of it into his palm, testing its strength. Ever the Viking. A boy and his club.

Darkon was nearly upon Amos, the ball and chain circling like a lasso above his head. I had to get to Amos before those spikes did.

Tartys closed in on me, purposely cutting off my path to Amos, knowing I intended to help him.

I quickly jabbed the butt of the dice stick's handle at Tartys's face as a misdirection. His reflexes made him flinch, and when his eyes flashed shut, I sent my good foot directly to his loins.

Tartys stayed upright, but he did wrinkle a bit, buying me just enough time to speed by him and help Amos.

Darkon's back was to me and he didn't see me coming. He was still twirling the chain like a lariat, over his head, cowboy style.

Reaching him, I had to wait for the right moment to thrust the curving end of the dice stick upward. That's where the stick was thickest, least likely to break. The timing had to be perfect. So did my aim.

Chool pointed his cigar at me, yelling, “Look out!” and giving away my position.

Darkon shifted his face toward me just as I jammed the silver stick into the chain near the place where it came out from the hardwood handle. My plan was to interrupt the ball's flight path. At the least, the introduction of the dice stick into the chain would slow the steel ball's speed. At best, it would alter the trajectory of the spikes and force the ball into making a sharp turn away from Amos. Even if my stick broke, it should give Amos an extra second to elude Darkon's weapon.

My timing was good. My aim was better. The dice cane hit Darkon's chain in exactly the right spot.

The steel ball shifted direction.

The dice stick held, refusing to break.

With the chain wrapping itself further around the silver stick, the spiky ball was no longer heading toward Amos's skull.

It was on its way to Darkon's.

He didn't see the spikes coming until it was too late. Darkon's eyes widened just in time for the spikes to puncture them both. For a moment, he stood, wobbling, a half dozen metal spikes impaled into his melted-wax face.

He fell, nose-first, his head accelerating as it neared the floor. The metal ball in his face struck the concrete first, driving each spike deeper into Darkon's brain and eye sockets. Blood and pulp sprayed out to make a half circle of red all around his head. A crimson halo.

Amos rushed over and stuck the Nephilim with the ram's horn…

Just as Tartys's club pounded into my neck.

My turn to go down.