Rick Boyer - Billingsgate Shoal

Then they came.

I didn't notice either of them until I smelled the faint sweet reek of whiskey.

The taller one stepped forth with his pistol. He aimed, at the thrashing woman. Much as I hated her, I would be glad when he ended it.

His partner ran over to the small doorway where Jim Schilling had disappeared. He flung his head snakelike around the edge for a millisecond, then flung it back inside. I saw his arm flicker, and heard a tremendous crashing boom, then two more. The noise was so loud I could feel it in my chest. His right hand held a huge revolver in stainless steel. He held it deftly, cradled it casually as if it were a water pistol. I didn't like these guys at all.

The man stayed put in the doorway, glancing back at the three and a half of us.

The big man nearest me wore a navy blue pea coat. His face was scary because it was a caricature of a face, one you might find on a totem pole. The brown ski mask was decorated in coarse, wide-weave patterns that bespoke Navaho, Aztec, Eskimo-the American aborigines in general. His partner's mask was pure dark wool, a balaclava helmet that covered the entire face except for an eye slit. He looked like a medieval executioner. In fact he was.

The big man breathed heavily, odoriferously, and stared down at the thrashing form. He heard the thick bubbling from the tom throat, the muted scrape of skin and flesh on rough cement.

"For God's sake, man," whispered John.

The big man glanced quickly at John, as if temporarily distracted, then turned his gaze back to the woman on the floor.

"Thank your stars we've saved you, O'Shaughnessey. Say a prayer of thanks and be done with it. You know who I am. If you interfere now I'll put you away, same's we put the coont here away."

He aimed the pistol at Laura Kincaid again and I thought he was going to end it.

But he didn't. He seemed to enjoy watching her.

"Brian McGooey" he said to her.

I don't think she heard him.

"Michael Tomlins," he said.

Nothing but more of the same.

"Patrick Cahill."

Nothing much at all now.

"Bernard Upshaw; " said the other, "and Eamon Dmmele, Sheila Coone, Aden Berry-" PTOU!

The man fired, and Laura Kincaid's left kneecap exploded. The men in ski masks leaned over her as she thrashed in the immense pain of it. A great dark wet stain spreadin her crotch. Still, they did not put her away. The room and the world rocked by me. I saw John's face dimly in the background. It had a look of profound sorrow.

Laura Kincaid had but a few seconds; she kept up her pitiable, spastic, and partnerless dance until, with a grunt, the taller one pushed his foot into her twitching form and shoved it into the hole.

"And now," he said turning in my direction, "who in blazes might you be?"

"I asked you a question."

"Charles Adams, M.D. I've been hunting this woman, Laura Kincaid, because I think she and her associates killed a friend of mine."

"Hmmmph! Well yer not alone in that department, Doctor, we can tell you. The question is, shall we have to kill you?"

"No,"' said John.

"And why not, assuming of course a couple of brigands like ourselves should be listening to you, O'Shaughnessey?"

"He's not one of 'em, I'll swear it," replied John, rising to his feet.

The second thug moved back over to the doorway again.

"Come on!" he whispered hoarsely. "There's two more upstairs we didn't get; let's go out this way."

"Did he have a gun?" the big man asked John.

"Not when he ran out, I don't think. But knowing him, he probably has one by this time, and you bloody well don't want to be on the receiving end of it either. It'll hit you, tear you in pieces before you hear it."

There was a faint stirring above us. I heard what sounded like a slamming of a door.

"That's probably Hartzos returning," I said.

"Naw. Hartzos is no longer among the living."

"We've got to move now" said Thug Number Two.

Almost as these words were spoken all of us heard the sound of feet on the metal stairway. From the noise, there was more than one person on them.

"Where does that tunnel lead?" the big man asked John.

"It's an old cartway back to the main factory building. It goes underneath ground level."

"Then that's for us. Is he in there waiting?"

"I would imagine he's as far away as possible by now, and still moving."

"Just so, you two will go first." He prodded the gun in our direction. "Move," he said.

O'Shaughnessey saw the Walther on the floor and started for it, but the big man saw him and kicked the pistol into the hole.

O'Shaughnessey and I went through the narrow doorway. It was black on the other side. I felt myself beginning to trip on something very hard raised up about two inches. A rail. Then another rail. Then a brick wall. It was a narrow-gauge railway… a miniature railroad in which carts ran, very reminiscent of the type used in old mines. O'Shaughnessey seemed to know his way about, and lost no time in turning to his left and moving quickly along between the rails. I followed. Had I any choice? Thug Number One had his silenced Luger pointed at my kidneys. If Schilling were indeed waiting for us, we'd go down first. It was just tough luck. Of course after what I'd been through I could scarcely gripe.

Still I found it excruciating to walk. Until the past few minutes the fear and shock had held the pain at bay. But now I HURT. I hurt very, very much. I had received two hard kicks to my Sport Section and scores to my belly and back. My right testicle was aflame. I had taken Laura Kincaid's belly kicks well because I had managed to tighten my stomach muscles just as the blows landed. But my back had no such protection. I would probably piss blood for a week or two if I were lucky and it was nothing more serious than a bruised kidney.

"Coont!" growled Thug Number One as he gazed back into the dreary chamber before joining us in the dark tunnel. I

"Yah coont yah!"

"I entirely agree," I murmured, and felt the encouraging prod of the big man's Luger.

We walked quite fast, knowing that remnants of the Kincaid Schilling staff were at our heels. I heard a grunt of pain in front of me, and a metallic screaking. O'Shaughnessey had bumped up against an old cart. It was a low wooden platform used to haul spools of wire and cord, but had a metal handle like a supermarket cart running along the back side, and he had run into it, knocking his breath away. When Number One Thug caught up with it and saw-with his flashlight-that the front end of the carriage was piled with old spools, he directed us to push it along the rails. Thus, under this crude armor, we advanced, with the two of them-well protected from Schilling should he be lying in wait-bringing up the rear. But as I leaned into the load I saw movement behind me. Number Two Thug whirled around, his leather coat flaps swinging outward with the spin. A yellowish rectangle of light showed behind us where the doorway was being opened.

A dark figure blocked out a large part of the rectangle. I turned my head still farther back, and could see he was flapping his arms up, as if directing a concerto. His elbows stuck out to the side. Funny looking. No it wasn't funny. He was aiming a pistol with both hands. I dropped to one knee and spun over until the wall stopped me.

"Down, everybody!" I said.

I saw two things at once: the orange-white burst of flame from the dark figure's chest, and that same figure flung backward against the opened door as if hit by an express train. Some recoil his pistol must've had. But no-

The figure slumped down like a dishrag, and my ears were splitting, bursting with pain. The retort from Number Two Thug's pistol thudded into my chest cavity like a funny heartbeat. It must have been a. 44 magnum. In the closeness of the tunnel the noise was unbearable.