Dan Simmons - Hardcase

At that second, Doo-Rag's Camaro burst into flame.

"What the fuck!??! " Doo-Rag screamed, achieving an amazing falsetto.

Cutter walked slowly to the window.

Doo-Rag's Camaro was burning steadily, flames leaping from the roof, hood, and trunk. It was obvious that the gas tank had been ignited; but rather than a gigantic, action-movie explosion, it just burned steadily.

"That my car , man. I mean, what the fuck is going on?" screamed Doo-Rag, hopping around. He ran to the couch and came back with his Mac-10, although no one was in sight in the parking area or alley beyond. "I mean, what the fuck ?"

"Shut up," said Malcolm. He was poking at his molars with a silver toothpick. He checked out his Mercedes, but it was far from the flames at the opposite end of the lot from the burning Camaro—almost right at the back door—and no one was near it.

Cutter made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He pointed at the fire and made the sound again.

Malcolm thought a minute and shook his head. "Naww. We won't call nine-one-one yet. Let's see what happen next."

Malcolm's Mercedes exploded in a ball of flame. This time there was a movie-style explosion, rattling the caged windows on the second floor with a bone-shaking whuump .

"What the fuck? " shouted Malcolm Kibunte. "Some bastard fucking with my car?" Some of the first-floor Bloods were already out back, milling around with automatic weapons ready, but they were being driven back inside by the heat from the two burning automobiles. Malcolm wheeled on Cutter. "Call nine-one-one. Get the fucking fire trucks here." He pulled his Smith & Wesson Powerport.357 Magnum and ran down the back stairs.

Two fire engines and a fire chiefs car arrived less than two minutes later. The big pumper filled the alley, hoses were played out, and more men and hoses appeared down the walkway from the front of the Social Club. Firefighters shouted instructions at one another. The Bloods were also shouting, their weapons visible.

The firefighters backed off. The flames roared.

Malcolm gathered Cutter and a few others around him at the back door. The fire chief, a short, powerfully built man with the name badge HAYJYK on his bulky coat, came up to glare at Malcolm.

"You the asshole in charge here?" demanded Hayjyk.

Malcolm only glared back.

"We've already called the cops, but if you don't get those fucking guns out of here, you're all going to jail and we're going to let that fucking fire burn. And it's about ready to ignite these other four vehicles."

"I'm Malcolm Kibu—" began Malcolm.

"I don't give a fuck who you are. You're just another gang punk to me. But get those guns out of sight now ." Hayjyk was leaning so close to Malcolm that the top of his fire helmet was brushing the taller man's chin.

Malcolm turned and waved his men back into the building. Three police cars pulled up behind the pumper in the alley, their red and white whirling lights adding to the pattern of lights already flickering on all the surrounding buildings.

"Wait a minute," yelled Malcolm, pointing to the four firefighters going in the back door after the Bloods. "They can't go in there."

Hayjyk just grinned without humor, stepped back, and gestured for Malcolm to join him. Malcolm did so, his hand on his.357 Magnum.

Hayjyk pointed up at the roof of the Seneca Social Club. "You're on fire, asshole!"

Malcolm began shoving his way past firefighters, trying to get to the rear staircase. It was locked from the inside. He pushed his way down the hall, Cutter and Doo-Rag shoving aside Bloods and firemen alike.

"You can't go back in there!" shouted Hayjyk.

"Gotta get some papers and shit," said Malcolm, loping up the stairs. The second-floor poolroom was already half-filled with smoke. Firefighters were standing on two of the green felt tables, smashing at the ceiling with their huge axes. The sight made Malcolm sick. Someone had smashed the glass of the rear window in his office, so the space was free of smoke. Malcolm gestured for Doo-Rag to close and lock the door. Then he began pawing papers, guns, and drugs out of the desk and throwing them into a black duffel bag. Luckily, the heroin, crack, yaba, dope, and other drugs were at the arms warehouse out near SUNY. Malcolm had never risked keeping the most incriminating shit anywhere near him. But he had to save his papers and records.

A fireman stepped out of the darkness of the rear stairway. He was carrying an ax backward in his right hand, his left hand was in his coat pocket, and he had a respirator with goggles over most of his face. "You'd be safer outside," said the fireman through his mask.

"Fuck you, man," said Doo-Rag.

The fireman shrugged, took a step forward and clubbed Malcolm over the head with the dull end of the ax. The big man went down heavily. There came two soft ph-uut sounds, and Doo-Rag slammed back against the closed office door and fell to the floor. He left a smear of blood on the door.

"Told you it was safer outside," said the firefighter.

Cutter began to move and then froze. A black polymer H&K USP.45 Tactical with a silencer was now visible in the firefighter's left hand.

Suddenly someone began pounding on the locked door. A section of ceiling actually collapsed above Malcolm's desk.

Kurtz's gaze shifted for only a second, but the distraction gave Cutter time to flick open a switchblade and lunge for Kurtz's heart. Kurtz had to swing the pistol out of line of fire as he jumped back. Cutter leaped closer. Kurtz brought down the ax while he jumped away, but the ax was heavy and it was clumsy handling it with just one hand. It only deflected the blow. Cutter had the blade swinging again, and he came in fast.

Kurtz dropped the ax, tossed the pistol into his right hand, and tried to bring the H&K to bear, but Cutter had grabbed his right wrist. Kurtz kneed the stocky man in the balls—it didn't seem to have any effect—and then Cutter's blade was ripping through the left side of Kurtz's heavy coat.

Asbestos and metal fibers sewed into the coat slowed the blade and gave Kurtz a chance to bat away Cutter's right wrist before the knife cut through anything but shirt and skin. Cutter slashed again. Kurtz and Cutter staggered around the room in a clumsy dance, both men breathing hard, Kurtz's plastic mask fogging up. The blade rose and came up fast enough to slash Kurtz's face, but the heavy respirator plastic took the cut. Kurtz tried desperately to free his right hand and the pistol, but the simple truth was that Cutter was stronger than he was.

Cutter's feet came down on Doo-Rag's face; he just dug his boots in for traction. Kurtz slammed into the edge of Malcolm's desk, numbing his thigh. He couldn't see well through the respirator mask, and he didn't have any way to get it off with both hands engaged. Cutter was forcing him back over the desk.

Cutter lunged, trying to gain more leverage for the blade. Instead of fighting the attack, Kurtz went with it. Both men went sprawling, the heavy oxygen tank on Kurtz's back ringing hollowly. The H&K.45 went bouncing across the floor, ending up against Malcolm's arm. Malcolm groaned but did not stir. Smoke was beginning to fill the room and firefighters were shouting in the room next door. The pounding had stopped but someone was chopping at the reinforced door with an ax.

Cutter pivoted the switchblade and slashed the blade across Kurtz's left wrist through the jacket, sending blood spraying.

Kurtz gritted his teeth and threw himself on his back, the oxygen tank ripping at his spine. Cutter lunged, blade swinging.

Kurtz let his heavy firefighter boots take the blows. Cutter pulled the blade back just as Kurtz kicked out once—hard—catching Cutter on the chest and sending him tumbling down the rear stairway and slamming into the door at the bottom. Kurtz had locked the door behind him as he came up the stairs.