Michael Walsh: Early Warning

For the first time since the appearance of the Angel of Death, he began to breathe a little easier…

Danny climbed into the chopper and took a look around. A-OK. The baby was fully loaded, and there was a nasty-looking Barrett sniper rifle all greased up and ready to go.

Two men approached him as he revved ’er up: both cops. They made a beeline for him and hopped right in.

“I’m Capt. Byrne, this is detective Aslan Saleh,” said Byrne, pronouncing the name pretty well for a white guy, and reaching for the rifle. Saleh was obviously an Arab, and Danny let the question cross his mind that maybe NYPD had been infected by the PC-virus, then caught himself. Far more likely that NYPD had done what the useless CIA should have done in the days after 9/11, if not long before: start recruiting from the streets of South Side Chicago and the tougher parts of Brooklyn, instead of among the poet-asters of Kenyon College and the University of California at Berkeley. Good Lord, when was the Langley Home for Lost Boys going to learn how to fight?

“Martin Ferguson,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

The chopper rose…

Devlin wasn’t sure what had hit him; some kind of stanchion, probably, something the kid had found in the room. Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. He was good, but he wasn’t Superman. He was tough, but he still bled. And he was bleeding now.

The blow to the head was followed by a power punch to the nose, which sent sparks shooting into his head. Either of the blows, had he known what he was doing, could have been killers; nobody had taught this punk, but he had the instincts of a pro. And Devlin hadn’t even seen his face yet. There was no worry that his opponent should see his, because no one had ever escaped from an encounter with the Angel.

Except, of course, Emanuel Skorzeny. And that mistake would someday soon be rectified.

Devlin rolled, confidently expecting to miss the next blow, but instead got a kick that just narrowly missed the point of his chin. Good God, who was this guy?

He lashed out, but again his man wasn’t where he expected him to be. The only thing he’d gotten right about this guy was his hidey-hole, and now he was beginning to think that that was on purpose.

Crash! A rusty old tool kit collided with the wall behind him, sending a shower of old, disused tools to the floor. At last, thought Devlin, he’s made a mistake. And then he realized that was exactly what the kid wanted to do. He knew Devlin would be armed; now he had an array of weapons to choose from, including screwdrivers, hammers, lug wrenches, and a couple of small saws with nasty, rusted-out teeth.

No more mistakes: the kid would be on him in a flash. And a kid he was, too, from the looks at him he could get. He had to end this and in a hurry.

“This is fun!” came the voice and a handful of nails hit him in the face, just missing his eyes.

A hammer hit him square on the back, missing the vertebrae.

Stop fighting like a pro, he thought to himself. Forget everything you know for about five seconds, just long enough to meet him in his own battlespace. Because right now you are getting the crap kicked out of you. Think; what did this punk want?

A sharp stab of pain as the point of a Phillips screwdriver slashed his pants and tore the flesh on his calf. Great, thought Devlin: I have enough toxic shit on me to poison the city, and now it’s heading for my bloodstream. Finish this. What did this punk want?

He had it: love and revenge. Just like everybody else.

“You’re good, Raymond” he said, dodging another thrust with the screwdriver. “Real good. I could train you.”

“Shit,” sneered Raymond. “From the looks of you, you old dog, you can’t even keep shit out of your ears.

Just a little pause in the assault. That was all he needed. A little more-

“I bet back home in Wahoo everybody thought you were a dork, didn’t they?” The kid threw a box cutter at him, with a wicked aim that creased the top of his hair. “Especially the girls. Am I right?”

Raymond’s eyes widened.

“And the girls probably made fun of you when you showed them that little dick, didn’t they? You need help, boy.”

“I don’t need no help to kick the shit out of you, buddy,” said Raymond, and he was on him again. This time, though, Devlin was ready. His head was still ringing, and there was blood somewhere and the clock was ticking and he had to finish his man and get the hell out of here, because Danny would be ready by now and-

“How could you help me? What could you teach me?”

That was all the opening he needed. Just that pause.

“How about this?”

Devlin lashed out with a perfect kick to the man’s throat, which sent him tottering backward, but didn’t knock him down. The kid was tough, he had to give him that. “Ow!” he exclaimed, and Devlin realized he was dealing with somebody who was maybe eighteen years old. Then he saw it, and any doubts he might have harbored about having the wrong man were gone. As Raymond tumbled, the woman’s hair fell from his belt, where it had been hanging. In a flash, Devlin scooped it up and held it aloft.

“She’s mine now, Raymond. I’m going to be the one who fucks her tonight, not you. So you’re going to have to listen to me and take my offer if you want to tap that ass.”

They were circling each other now, wary. Raymond was having a hard time breathing, and he was gulping like a fish on the bottom of a boat; the sort of blow he’d just received did that to you.

“Can you teach me?” Raymond croaked. “The Brothers taught me, but I bet you could teach me more. They didn’t let me near no pussy on account of the faith, but they knew I wanted some and they promised me I could get me some if I…” He coughed.

“If you became a martyr, is that right?”

Raymond nodded, lowering his head.

Because of its heavy handle, the KA-BAR wasn’t thought of as a great throwing knife. You could dig a trench with it, generally fuck somebody up pretty good with it at close range. But you could also conk them with it.

Devlin heard the skull crack as the handle of the Marine Corps knife came down on Raymond’s head; the blade cut his hand as he grasped it, but no matter. This would be over soon now. He just had to keep Raymond alive a little while longer. But first he had to teach him the lessons he so desperately wanted to learn.

Devlin sprang behind and caught him in a choke hold. He put the point of the knife under his chin, then releasing the hold, caught him with a hard left to the kidney. The boy whimpered but stiffened, and kicked backward. But now the fight was on Devlin’s terms. As Raymond turned, under the illusion he had escaped the deadly hold, Devlin thrust a thumb into his eye socket and popped the eyeball loose. It stayed in his head, dangling from its stalk.

“I thought you were going to teach me!” he shouted.

“I am teaching you,” Devlin replied calmly. “It’s just that you have to use what you’ve learned in the next life, because you sure as hell aren’t going to use it in this one.”

“That’s what you think, old man.”

He must have pulled the gun out of his ass or something because the next thing Devlin knew the room was being spray-painted with bullets and all he could do was react. He dove behind some old paint barrels and boxes, not thinking that they would block the shots, but that with only one eye Raymond’s aim would be off, that he’d be firing by instinct and that, once again, all he needed was a little time.

He must be slowing down. He’d never needed time like this, time like a dropped fighter needs when he’s taking a standing eight count. He should have listened to his own good sense last year, and gotten out when he could. He could still punch his ticket, take Maryam and go live somewhere far away from all this-Argentina, maybe, or New Zealand or Mongolia, for that matter. It didn’t matter. The whole world was the same damned fucking place to him, and he’d hated it since that day in Rome.