Victor Gischler - Vampire A Go-Go

“It’s an old house, Finnegan, and you weigh ten tons. Send DeGaul up the drainpipe.”

A slight pause. “Understood.”

“Get into position and stand by.”

Father Paul checked his weapons, then slowly approached the front window, crouched over. The first-floor window was big and low, very easy access. He looked inside, saw the back of a man’s head, his chair back against the window. Beyond the man sat Allen Cabbot, looking tired and anxious. The priest wished he could get a better look at the other man. It was difficult to tell the exact situation. Father Paul had assumed that Allen had been abducted, but that wasn’t necessarily the case. Maybe there was a more subtle way to handle this.

Father Paul saw Allen’s eyes get big. Allen sat up in his chair, pointed at the window. The other man turned. There was a pistol in his hand.

Hell.

“Go!” Father Paul yelled into the headset’s microphone. He took three steps back, then leaped through the big front window.

Glass shattered and rained, sparkling fragments spraying the man with the pistol. The priest tucked and rolled, came up in a shooter’s stance.

The man with the pistol took a panicked step back and shouted, “Vatican thugs! Run!”

And then he pointed the pistol at Father Paul.

The submachine gun bucked in the priest’s hands, sprayed the man with lead. Red blotches sprouting across his chest and belly. The man jerked and fell, a pile of dead meat. Father Paul was simultaneously aware of more gunplay elsewhere in the house. His team was in.

Allen was up and running out of the room. The priest couldn’t blame him. People tended to flee from gunfire.

“Allen, wait!” Father Paul cried as he ran after him.

He ran into the kitchen, saw a young blond girl standing before Allen, her hand flung up in a Halt! gesture. Father Paul didn’t halt; he charged at her, machine gun raised.

He stepped on something, his foot sliding along the linoleum floor and out from under him. He went into the air, drifting backward, the kitchen a spinning blur in front of his eyes. He landed on his back. Hard. The air went out of him with a whuff , and his mouth worked silently, trying to find breath.

He glimpsed Allen and the girl dashing out a side door into the night.

There was a long three seconds before Father Paul could catch his breath again. He groaned into a sitting position, then scanned the kitchen floor and saw a small, delicate teacup turned upside down. He’d stepped square on top of it, and instead of crushing the thing into dust, he’d slid across the floor on it, as if it had been an ice skate. His back ached in several places.

A bearded man in denim rushed into the kitchen, screaming, “Damn Papist!” He leveled a shotgun at the priest. The shotgun blast shook the room as Father Paul rolled to the side. Buckshot scored the cabinets behind him.

Father Paul flattened to his belly, swung the H &K, one-handed, out in front of him and squeezed off two quick bursts. A slug smacked into the attacker’s shin, sprayed blood. He screamed, high-pitched and ragged, then collapsed on top of himself, the shotgun sliding out of reach.

“Oh, fucking shit. You shot my leg off. My fucking leg!” He writhed, tried to reach down and staunch the blood flow.

The priest lurched to his feet, went to the door, and looked outside. No sign of Cabbot or the girl.

“Damn.”

He heard somebody come in behind him. He spun quickly, bringing the machine gun to bear.

“It’s me.” Finnegan held up his hands. “The rest of the house is secure. Three more Society fanatics. They’ve been terminated.”

“Vatican scum!” said the bleeding man on the floor.

“Put a sock in it, boyo. We’ll get to you in a minute.”

“Fuck you!”

“Did you get Cabbot?” Finnegan asked.

Father Paul sighed. “I missed him.”

“He’s out of your reach now,” said the bearded man. “Kill me and ten more will rise to take my place.”

“Then I suppose we’d better patch you up and keep you alive,” Father Paul said. “I’d hate to have ten of you cluttering up the place. Plus it’s damn difficult to interrogate you if you’re dead.”

“Tough shit, priest. You won’t get anything out of me.” He dipped a thumb and forefinger into his shirt pocket, came out with a pill, prepared to put it in his mouth.

“Suicide pill!” shouted Finnegan.

Father Paul and the big Irishman dove on the wounded man, grabbed his wrist as he strained to get the pill into his mouth.

“You can’t stop me, you bastards!”

“No, you don’t.” Finnegan engulfed the man’s fist with his own hammy hand and squeezed. The fingers popped open, and Finnegan grabbed the pill. “Got it.”

“This is taking too long,” Father Paul said. The local authorities would soon respond to the commotion. He touched his throat microphone. “Gather up the strays and meet back at the ranch. One minute.”

“Hold on a second.” Finnegan held the blue pill close to his eyes. “This is an Aleve.”

“No, it’s not,” the fanatic said.

“The hell it isn’t. I take them for my knees. It’s an Aleve with the writing scratched off.”

“It’s a suicide pill. We’ve sworn not to be taken alive.”

Finnegan grabbed the fanatic’s face, squeezed until his mouth popped open, then shoved the pill inside. The fanatic squirmed, tried to spit it out, but the Irishman clapped a hand over his mouth. “Swallow it.”

The fanatic swallowed it, and Finnegan removed his hand.

“You son of a bitch!” the fanatic shouted. “You’ve poisoned me.”

“It’s not poison, idiot. It’ll probably make your leg feel better.”

“That’s enough,” Father Paul said. “Finnegan, throw him over your shoulder. We’ll fix his leg in the van. Let’s move.”

Somehow Father Paul would have to find the Cabbot boy. He was out there roaming Prague by night without the faintest notion of what was about to happen to him.

A my held his hand tight, pulling him along so fast that Allen almost tripped and fell flat on his face a dozen times. The ra-ta-ta-tat of distant machine-gun fire still followed them. Her blond braids streamed behind her. Allen huffed and went red in the face, a large quantity of pilsner sloshing in his stomach.

“I’ve got to stop,” Allen said.

“Not yet. Keep running.”

They ran through the residential area to a small park at the foot of a hill. Allen jerked his hand away from hers and threw himself on the first park bench they passed.

“Got to… stop, okay?” He gasped for breath. “I’m going to… puke.”

She took his hand in both of hers and tried to pull him off the bench. “Come on ! We can rest later. We’ve got to get under cover.”

“Just one minute. I’m not kidding. I’m going to spew beer all over this fucking bench.”

She sat next to him, put her hand on his forehead. Her palm was soft and cool. She smelled like cinnamon.

Both their heads jerked up at the sound of the sirens.

They saw the lights washing through the street a split second before the two police cars came into view, driving fast. Amy threw her arms around Allen and kissed him hard as the police cars sped past.

“What was that for?” A faint strawberry flavor lingered in his mouth from the kiss.

“Haven’t you ever seen them do that in the movies?” she asked. “A man and woman trying to look inconspicuous when the cops go by?”

“I don’t think it was necessary. They were probably too worried about the gunfight to care about a couple of people sitting on a park bench,” Allen said. “Not that I minded.”

She stood, grabbed his hand again. “Come on.”