Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

What is it with criminals? Both men were dressed in windbreakers and denims, both with the obligatory shaved heads that went with hired muscle. They could have been the American cousins of Shank's right-hand man. Perplexed at my appearance, they were caught in a limbo that stayed their hands as effectively as it did their brains. One of them had called out Five-O, street slang for police. That gave me a second advantage over them. Where they probably wouldn't hesitate to take out a rival, it wasn't okay to kill a police of?cer. Do that, and any agreement Petoskey had with the local police force went right out the window. When it came to avenging one of their own, the police would come down on them like a blue avalanche.

The disguise didn't fool them, but that was?ne. They saw through the shabby clothes, but saw something that wasn't there. So let them think I was a cop. It's what would save their lives.

"Police," I said. "You're both under arrest."

A totally lame statement, I know, but something they expected nonetheless. They gaped at me, then at each other, before breaking into stupid grins.

"You've got to be jokin', man," said one of them.

"No," I answered. "I'm deadly serious."

Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they again exchanged grins.

"What the hell you on, man?" Tweedledum asked. "You know you don't come here."

"Oh? You mean an of?cer of the law isn't welcome in your?ne establishment?" I said. Any old nonsense was enough to keep their attention on me another second or so.

"No, you're not welcome," said Tweedledee.

"Ah, now that is a shame," I told him.

"Yeah, a goddamn cryin' shame," Rink echoed as he whacked the stock of his shotgun into the nearest man's kidneys. The man buckled to his knees.

The second Tweedle twin spun to face Rink, backing up against the far wall as he reached to his pocket for a concealed weapon. Rink wasn't a black belt for nothing. He lifted a boot and kicked the man in the pit of his stomach, then held the man with his foot, pressing him up against the rotting plaster of the wall.

"Go on up," he said. "Leave these two punks to me."

"They're all yours," I told him.

I was about midway to the next landing when the shooting started. Not from below, but from above. It's natural to throw yourself down when?red upon. What is equally natural is the way I brought up my hand and?red off a return shot.

Boom! There goes the neighborhood, you might've said. And you'd have been right. All hope of engaging the enemy without shooting was gone now. Any remorse about killing had to be put behind me, too. When?red upon, there was only one recourse.

The stairwell echoed with the thump of feet. It could only be Petoskey's men looking for cover. There were four distinct voices as they called out to others in the building. Confusion was the reigning order. Someone was shouting that the police were here, while another shouted that Hendrickson's men were in the building. It didn't matter who the hell they thought they were up against; panic had turned their response deadly.

To buy a little respite, I unloaded a clip toward the head of the stairs, following my bullets with a headlong charge as I pushed another magazine in place.

Rink was still below me, snorting like a bull as he?nished off the two who'd tried to take me from behind. Undoubtedly eager to?nish the?ght and come to my assistance. Time to wait for him wasn't a luxury I possessed. I sprinted upward to a point where there was a turn in the stairs. Suicidal I'm not, but that's what I'd have been committing if I'd poked my head around the corner for a look. Unfortunately, I had to get some kind of bead on the men waiting to ambush me. Choice made, I thrust my gun around the bend,?ring three rapid shots. Just enough to force my ambushers to dive for cover. I spun into the cordite cloud searching for movement.

No one in sight, I sprang up the remaining stairs and into a recess on the left. I run regularly, occasionally go to the gym, yet I was still blowing hard. I blame it more on adrenaline dump than lack of condition.

The wall next to my shoulder was holed by one of my own bullets. I quickly pushed myself deeper into the recess,?ring off two more rounds into the quiet corridor. There were doors lining the corridor on both sides, and any one of them could be concealing an enemy shooter.

"Rink! Are you about done down there or what? I could do with that shotgun up here." Rink appeared on the stairs below me. Blood was seeping from a shallow nick below his left eye. Other than that, he appeared unhurt.

"One of the punks thought he'd do me with a set of brass knuckles," Rink said. He dabbed away blood with the back of his wrist. "I soon knocked that silly notion out of his skull."

"Get yourself up here and give me some cover," I whispered to him. "Sounds like they're holed up in a room on my right."

Rink came up the stairs, feeding shells into his shotgun. There was blood on the stock. Thug with brass knuckles versus Rink wielding a shotgun like a club: no contest.

"I'm going to try and get by that door there. If it looks like it's about to open, give 'em hell." "Leave it to me," Rink said. He moved to the head of the stairs where he could get a line on the door I'd indicated.

Cat-footed, I moved forward, my gun extended before me. The defenders behind the door had to know I was moving into the corridor, but there was nothing for it: I had to go forward. We had to stop them and stop them fast. I feared the arrival of reinforcements who'd be able to pen us in from below. Then there was the other consideration. That Petoskey was making a quick exit by another route. If he got away from us now, it'd probably be impossible to get a second chance at him.

Passing the door on the right, I nodded for Rink to follow, and he thumped up the corridor like Frankenstein's monster. True to form, the door exploded into splinters. Even the wall opposite was shredded, the bullets continuing into the rooms beyond.

As the?rst barrage ended, I swung in front of the shattered door, emptying my clip through the wood. Men yelled inside the room, one of them making a series of gasps. I'd hit one of them at least. That left-what?-three more?

Rink lifted a boot and smashed open the door. Immediately he blasted the interior of the room before swinging back out of sight. Two seconds of carnage were all I required to insert a full clip of ammo. Exchanging positions with choreographed precision, I opened up,?ring off bullets as quickly as I could squeeze the trigger. Then I was in the room and had moved left as Rink let off another full load of pellets.

Armed confrontations do not resemble John Woo's battles of balletic gunplay; any somersaulting or leaping through space discharging bullets is reserved for the movies. Reality is not so pretty. I slammed my back to a wall, my gun out before me, and emptied it at every target that moved. I was shouting something that was unintelligible even to me. An animal shout of loathing, fear, and unrestrained rage.

It took all of a few seconds to deplete my gun of bullets, yet I felt as spent as the bullet casings littering the?oor at my feet.

Rink hustled into the room, the stock of his shotgun to his shoulder as he sought targets. Smoke hung in the air. So did the unmistakable tang of blood. One man was huddled in a corner of the room, hands over his head as he sobbed in terror. Another was sprawled over a coffee table, a hole the size of a baby's?st in his shoulder. The man murmured, delirious in his agony.

That accounted for two of them, but I couldn't see where the other two were. As Rink covered the cowering man, I ejected my empty clip and inserted a fresh one. Rink moved over to the open window. Sounds of?ight ricocheted from the?re escape beyond.

"Careful," I said. Both to Rink and as a warning to the man who cringed away from the business end of my SIG. Rink gave me a wry grin as he approached the window.