Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

He racked the pump action. "As long as I've got ammo, I'll give 'em hell." "When the shooting stops, I want you to come up and join me as quickly as you can."

"Damn, and here was me thinking it was time for a coffee break."

"After we're done I'll buy you coffee and doughnuts."

"Make 'em jelly doughnuts and you've got a deal."

"Sounds good to me."

Another volley of?re gained the attention of those on the populated side. I backtracked across the building.

Speed was an issue. Call me cautious, but I made my way through the building as though every nook hid an assassin. Better a minute late than thirty years too early at the pearly gates.

The remains of the door Rink had blasted were like an open mouth full of jagged teeth. The room beyond exuded the stench of battle like sour breath. Apart from the stink, the room was now empty. The unconscious man had obviously come to, and he wasn't as ill informed about our chances as he was making out. At least he'd had the sense to get the hell away from the shitstorm raging above. The man who had taken a bullet in the shoulder was gone, too. A smear of blood on the window ledge con?rmed their escape route.

Happy that no one would come on me from behind, I ran along the corridor. Behind me, the boom of Rink's shotgun resonated as he unloaded it toward the upper?oor.

I headed upward on the other staircase. Natural functions sometimes take a backseat when adrenaline shrieks through your veins; I took the full?ight of stairs before I remembered to breathe. At the top I paused to exhale, sucked in air, then stepped out into a corridor much shorter than the one I'd passed through below.

A little over thirty feet away, the corridor had been blocked. What appeared to be a new metal door had been installed. It reverberated under the ring of urgent voices from beyond. A background accom paniment of baying dogs and shotgun blasts con?rmed that I'd found Petoskey's hideout.

Cursory inspection of the metal door told me it was a no-go. There was no handle on this side, no keyhole. The soldier in me said it would be almost impregnable to anything short of heavy artillery. Abandoning the door, I stepped into the of?ce on my left. There was the usual jumble of wrecked furniture and scattered documents.

I made my way to the wall and put an ear to it. I was quite sure that all the action was at the far end, and the possibility of getting hot lead in my ear was pretty slim.

The wall was made of Sheetrock, and by the swollen roar of activity beyond it I could tell it wasn't as heavily forti?ed as the door. I crouched down and took the KA-BAR from my boot.

It took less than a minute to cut away a torso-sized portion of the wall. Beyond was a second layer of the same substance. Why the Americans called this brittle stuff Sheetrock always amused me. Using only the tip of my knife, I bored a small circle in the plaster and peered into Petoskey's hideout.

As if on cue, Rink stopped?ring. Makes me wonder if the link we share exceeds mere intuition and laps at the shore of the preternatural. Then again, he may have been reloading his shotgun. Whatever, the lull in activity was just what I needed.

Through my peephole, I could see an open room that ran the breadth of the building. A group of men gathered by a second doorway at the far end had to be the hired guns. Their attention was on the stairwell below them. Two more men held pit bull terriers on leashes. The dogs were blood-soaked and torn in a number of places. Unconcerned by the madness of humans, they strained at their leashes to continue their own private war. That meant that the?nal three men standing by a jerry-built arena in the center of the?oor were the high-?iers. One of them had to be Sigmund Petoskey.

Okay, quick calculation and what did I have?

Ten men in total.

Two dogs.

It wasn't the most difficult summation.

The real question was: Could I handle them all?

Whether or not I was capable wasn't an issue. I was going to, and that was it.

When I was a small child,Ii lived in a home poor in money but rich in love. What my parents were unable to provide in tne food and modern conveniences, they made up for with hugs and kisses and quality time spent with their only child. I don't miss having little in the way of material belongings, but I do miss my dad.

After my dad died and my mother remarried, things changed. I still didn't possess the treasures children yearn for, but I did get a little brother. But then it was my brother who got more of the hugs and kisses. And I looked elsewhere for comfort.

My father instilled in me a love of books. Where other kids got stereo record players and portable TVs in their bedrooms, I had a collection of dog-eared novels passed down to me by my dad. Poe, Lovecraft, and R. E. Howard were my favorites. Next in line came the comic book superheroes that I grew into when a newspaper delivery route gave me the pocket money to spend on treats. Sometimes I wonder if the books taught me about the horrors of our world, while the superheroes taught me how to deal with them. Whatever, they did give me a fertile imagination.

Probably explained why I envisioned myself as the Incredible Hulk when I erupted through the wall. The Hulk had an extraordinary strength he used against his enemies, but I didn't have that luxury. I came out shooting in a spray of dust and plaster particles.

I didn't aim to hit anyone and?red above their heads. Combined with my Hulk act, it was enough to startle everyone into immobility. Only the dogs responded with panic, circling and ensnaring their handlers with their leashes as they spun.

"No one move or the next bullet will kill you," I shouted. In reality, if all of them had turned on me at once, I wouldn't have stood a chance. The thing was, without exception, everyone thought I was shouting directly at him. No one wants to be a dead hero.

"Guns on the?oor," I shouted as I took a half-dozen paces into the room. The three men nearest me weren't armed. They thrust their hands toward the ceiling.

The dog handlers were too busy trying to untangle themselves to pay me immediate attention. Stuck between me and Rink, who approached the opposite door at a gallop, the?ve guards at the far end quickly dropped their weapons and kicked them away.

"Inside the room, boys," I heard Rink shout. His voice jostled them like bowling pins.

My unorthodox entrance, not to mention the demanding muzzle of my SIG, commanded compliance. The three men by the?ghting arena moved quickly toward the plastic-shrouded wall, their hands seeking heaven.

A shadow in the doorway morphed into Rink. It was good to see the big guy again. He shot me a wink as he ushered the?ve goons before him.

"Get your butts in the ring and sit on your hands," Rink told them. They crowded into the center of the?ghting area. Space was at a premium as they jostled to be farthest away from the 12-gauge. Rink turned to the two dog handlers. "You, too."

One of the handlers, a skinny youth with a huge nose covered in acne, twisted his face at Rink. He was uglier than his mutt. At least the dog had an excuse; it had already gone a couple of rounds.

"Got a problem with your hearing?" Rink demanded.

"The dogs will fight," he said.

"Then it's your job to stop them, Zit Boy," Rink said. "Now get the hell in there. One of you at either end."

The big-nosed youth entered the ring?rst, pulling his struggling dog to him. When he was as settled as he could be, the second dog handler entered. Rink pushed the gate to,?ipped a catch in place. No one moved in the arena. The tough guys huddled together. Dogs' teeth and a 12-gauge shotgun made the proverbial rock and hard place.

Harvey's surveillance shots of Sigmund Petoskey came in handy. He looked like a typical wealthy businessman. Shirt, tie, suit, and shiny shoes. Well groomed and manicured. He looked out of place in this setting. Even if I'd never viewed a photo of him, I'd have picked him out by the contempt that radiated from him.