Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

“Favor?” Barry cocked his head sideways as if Simon would make more sense looked at differently.

“Well, sort of, but not really. You see...” Simon stopped and looked back at Vi as if she shouldn’t be hearing this conversation. “Wait here a second Vi, Barry and I need to chat.”

Barry was not aware of any need to chat, but the Saint’s carefree manner was remarkably authoritative and the giant’s curiosity was equalled only by his height.

Simon approached the beast as if conferring with an old pal, and motioned that they should step into the alcove.

Vi watched the two men disappear, realized she had been holding her breath for an eternity, and laboriously exhaled.

Alone with Barry, the Saint posed a pertinent question.

“Who first had the idea of partying with Little Buzzy? Alisdare or Talon?”

“Why do you care?”

“I may never get the opportunity to join the fun, but a good idea certainly deserves credit.”

The giant clamped his left hand around Simon’s chin and lifted him up against the wall. The white handled stiletto snapped to deadly attention, its blade poised under the Saint’s heart.

“Neither,” rasped Barry, “Talon has always loved little girls and boys, but I was the first to spot her, the first to drug her, and the first to...”

And those were the last words ever to cross his lips. The remaining intended verb and noun drowned in a rising tide of blood. Snookums’ grip waned in intensity, he stumbled stupidly backwards, and crashed noisily to the floor.

“Grab the wine bottle, Vi,” called the Saint, “We’re getting out of here.”

Vi snapped up the bottle and ran into the alcove. When she saw Snookums dead on the floor, she almost fainted.

“Oh, God.” Vi turned white. “That’s... that’s...”

“Yes, I know,” said the Saint, pulling a long blade out of Barry’s chest and wiping the blood on the giant’s shirt, “its your cutlery. I took it from your kitchen earlier tonight when I was tidying up and secured it with duct tape.”

Vi stared blankly at the large body sprawled on the floor. “I wondered why you asked for that,” she said softly. “He’s dead isn’t he?”

“Permanently,” stated the Saint succinctly as he returned the knife to its makeshift sheath, led the way into Alisdare’s kitchen, turned on the gas oven and doused the floor with a liberal amount of Alisdare’s wine.

“Is that safe?” Asked Vi, and she felt self-conscious posing the question.

“Of course not. When the Saint plays with fire, the ungodly burn in hell — we’re going to blow this entire operation off the face of the earth.”

Simon ripped a sheet of paper towels from a roll on the counter, stuffed it into the bottle’s neck and scooped a few plain kitchen matches from a metal bin above the stove.

“Your car is out front and your keys are in the ignition,” said Simon, “get out there, start ’er up and head for the end of the road.”

“But what about you?”

The Saint set the wine bottle and matches on the counter before stepping out on the back porch, reaching up, and wiggling the hatchet free from where Ian embedded it.

“Just keep an eye on your rearview mirror,” he advised, “and maybe you’ll get that big bang you were asking for. Now, gather up your stuff and scoot.”

Vi scooted.

The Saint quickly perused the contents of Alisdare’s cupboards and kitchen drawers, retrieved a bottle of cooking sherry, constructed a second Molotov cocktail and affixed to it a slightly longer, tightly wound fuse. In the process, he helped himself to an array of burglar’s perks: a few rubber bands, thumbtacks, and another helping of old-fashioned, plain kitchen matches.

As Viola closed the front door behind her and headed for the BMW, Simon opened the door to the posterior porch, used the sherry bottle as a door stop, and lit the fuse. He slid the hatchet in his belt, stepped out into the dark, and headed towards the wood shed.

There was no way of knowing what final words or warnings passed between Major League, Milo, and the meth lab’s remaining men. It was entirely possible that Vi and he could simply drive away unhindered, but if the late and unlamented Snookum’s behavior was any indication, immediate destruction was not only manifest justice, it was their best protection. It came as no surprise to the Saint that the smooth firing of the BMW’s ignition triggered an immediate response from Alisdare’s chemically inclined minions. As the first rays from Vi’s headlights swept the driveway, the bearded thug in bib overalls lumbered out to investigate. His curiosity shifted almost immediately to the sudden appearance of a white handled stiletto protruding from his chest approximately 1/4 inch from his left bib button. While the knife was one with which he was familiar, he was not used to seeing it embedded in his own ample body. Before he could give this conundrum further serious consideration, the ability to consider anything beyond the last fleeting moment vanished in eternal silence. His body teetered back and forth as if grappling with a life or death decision. The decision made, the body crashed backwards in the doorway.

The recently deceased’s sightless eyes perceived not the lovely starlit sky, the Molotov cocktail sailing over his head, nor the all consuming flames that soon reduced his fatted form to indistinguishable ashes. Vi Berkman, however, saw the first of two fireballs blast yellow illumination in her rear view mirror. The second woe came quickly — a thunderous explosion of ground shaking intensity shooting flames hundreds of feet in the air. In the sudden flare of fire and flame, she glimpsed the silhouetted form of Simon Templar fleeing the conflagration towards her bright red tail-lights.

And there was a ball of fire spinning behind the Saint — a ball of fire with a pronounced limp, to be exact. Milo, by a miracle of nature or an unpleasant twist of fate, emerged from the caustic combustion smoldering to the bone, his anger hotter than hell itself. Spared the near instant death of his companions, Milo erupted from the destruction as would a wiry yet vengeful phoenix. Better trained in fire safety than his melted co-conspirators, Milo threw himself in the dirt and rolled back and forth with valiant determination. The outward flames died in the dust, but the searing heat and acrid chemicals continued sizzling through his skin’s remaining layers. Whatever thoughts of self preservation motivated him to extinguish the external blaze were his final reserve. All that remained in his barbecued brain was a burning desire for unrelenting retaliation.

The vibration under Simon’s feet and the intense heat at his back gave him no reason to doubt the effectiveness of his incendiary inventiveness. He needn’t look back for verification of the meth lab’s vaporization, nor for confirmation that Alisdare’s domicile was engulfed in a maelstrom of destruction. There was only the clear path before him, the blacktop beneath him, and the bright brake lights of the BMW as his immediate goal.

Vi, however, knew what the Saint did not: a smoking form emerged from the dust, flailing its arms in wild concentric circles, throwing itself at the 4X4 whose paint blistered from the intense heat generated by the twin blasts. Milo, propelled past the brink of madness, felt no pain when grasping the red hot door handle and throwing himself behind the wheel. He pawed the driver’s side visor and an ignition key plopped into his scalded palm.

Viola Berkman leapt from her car, waving and yelling warnings at the Saint. Simon couldn’t hear her, but her body language bore sufficient augury. The Saint turned to witness the big wheel’s twin beams blast through the smoke and see the spin of enormous tires on gravel.