Kevin Anderson - The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Quatermain, though, did not hide. He pulled an old but well-oiled Webley revolver from his jacket, pulled back the hammer, and fired. A single shot to the head took out the first assassin before the other three had time to realize what was happening. The man fell dead on top of Nigel.

"Wrong Quatermain," the old adventurer said.

The other assassins turned to see Quatermain coolly cocking his Webley, then realized their mistake. "That's him!" They dove for cover, returning fire even as the famous hunter shot again.

The room became a hail of bullets that chewed the club's already-battered paneling to pieces. Bottles shattered, and stuffed animals exploded. Quatermain dashed over to take cover behind Nigel's sagging leather sofa, dragging Reed with him. As he ran, ducked low, he took perfect shots at his attackers. His aim was accurate from a lifetime of practice — but the bullets ricocheted off their chests.

"They're indestructible!" Reed stared in amazement from behind the sofa, until Quatermain pulled him back down. The assassins returned fire, and bullets tore through the upholstery, popping out coarse hemp stuffing near Reed's ear.

"No. Just armor-plated." Quatermain cautiously reached around the couch to check Nigel's nonexistent pulse. "Remember what I was saying about losing friends every time someone wants me to get involved in another adventure?" He sighed with utter world-weariness. "Nigel was one of the last friends I had."

As the young bureaucrat huddled against the continuing gunfire, Quatermain grabbed a handy wicker chair and heaved it over the back of the bullet-riddled sofa. Using the chair as a distraction, he leaped up and over the couch.

The three bulletproof assassins fired with new weapons now — fully automatic machine rifles, far more modern than Quatermain's Webley revolver. After the thrown wicker chair exploded into splinters and dust, the killers turned their noisy, deadly weapons at the new target.

Shocked to see the automatic machine rifles cause faster and more thorough carnage than he had ever imagined, Quatermain realized he was caught in the crossfire. He dove for cover so frantically that his trusted revolver went skittering across the debris-strewn floor of the club. He ducked a stuffed lion that was shot to pieces, then took cover next to an elderly hunter, who was clumsily loading his shotgun.

"What in God's name! Automatic rifles?" he said.

"Dashed unsporting, if you ask me," said the elderly hunter. "They're probably Belgian. Shouldn't be allowed in the Club." Indignant, the old man stood up and fired his shotgun, winging one of the assassins. Quatermain was glad to see that their armor protection did not extend to their arms as well.

A second assassin coolly shot the elderly hunter dead, using at least a dozen more bullets than was necessary and expending the last rounds in his automatic machine rifle.

Furious, Quatermain snatched up the elderly mans fallen shotgun and blasted with the second barrel. His shot sent the assassin diving for cover, then he waded in, his anger endowing him with more confidence than the bulletproof plating gave his attackers.

Recovering from the shock, the downed assassin crawled across the floor, clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. The second killer struggled to reload his empty automatic rifle. The third assassin wrenched a thick paw from the ruined stuffed carcass of a lion; the taxidermist had extended the lion's claws to make the trophy look more ferocious. Using the stiff paw as a club, he slashed at Quatermain with the hooked claws.

But the old adventurer was faster. He smashed the man with a liquor bottle he grabbed from the bar, shattering it over his unprotected head. "Wicked waste of good scotch."

Finally finished reloading his machine rifle, the second assassin raised his weapon to fire — but Quatermain crashed into him with a rattling tea trolley. He sprawled with a yelp, and the famous adventurer lifted the cart and broke it over the man's head. Cakes and china cups went flying in all directions.

The distinctive click of a gun being cocked made Quatermain whirl, ready. His heart pounded, his blood flowed, his muscles worked — just as they had in his younger days. But instead of another enemy, he saw pallid Sanderson Reed nervously aiming the old Webley, which he had retrieved from the floor.

"You're liable to hurt someone with that," Quatermain said.

"I–I just wanted to help—"

"Allan!" Bruce the bartender called out. "Heads up, man!"

Quatermain whirled and barely dodged a swarm of sharp silver throwing knives. With a staccato patter, the blades thunked like arrows up the face of a wooden pillar in the middle of the gathering room. The last few knives stapled Quatermain's collar to the mahogany.

The man who had been grazed by the elderly hunters shotgun blast looked badly wounded, his right shirt sleeve soaked with blood. But he was still coming, and he could throw with his uninjured arm.

Quatermain grimaced. "Just my luck the bastard's left handed."

Bending awkwardly, he tried to pull the knives loose, but the thick material of his sweat-damp shirt would not tear free. He succeeded only in slicing his callused hand. Seeing his victim pinned like a moth to a specimen board, the wounded assassin brandished a big gutting knife. He smiled as he stabbed at Quatermain's head.

Though he had limited mobility, the old adventurer thrashed and evaded the wicked strikes. So the assassin gripped the big knife and tried for his victims gut, using an underarm swing.

Amazed at his own resilience after being so long out of practice, Quatermain squirmed his hips and hauled his body up out of the way, just as the assassin's blade stuck into the wood, driven by all his force.

Coming down from his agile move, Quatermain whacked the man on the head. The assassin grunted, and his own weight finally succeeded in pulling the wedged blade free — just in time for him to fall onto the point of his own gutting knife.

Then, covered with cream and jam like a monster from a mad bakers nightmare, the last assassin broke from beneath the tea trolley, where he had lain stunned. He lunged forward, frothing frosting, and picked up his own gun.

Quatermain spun, now that he was free of the knives. With a roar, he hefted a table as a shield, scattering checkers. He charged the pastry-clotted killer at full hitting the man hard and driving him back toward the trophy-covered wall.

The blow spiked the assassin on a curved rhino horn mounted for show over the fireplace. The man's eyes bulged and he coughed powdered sugar, then oozed a bright red that was definitely not raspberry jam.

The impact knocked loose a large British flag hanging overhead; it floated down, smartly shrouding the assassin in his final death throes.

"Rule Britannia," Quatermain said, standing back and lifting his chin in satisfaction. He wiped perspiration off his forehead, catching his breath.

Reed shook his head, amazed by what he had just seen. "Well, Mr. Quatermain, I believe that only verifies—"

Impatient and still angry, the adventurer looked around. "Wait. Wasn't there one more of these buggers? I don't think I lost count—"

The black valet gestured at the door, calling out in high-pitched alarm, "Mister Quatermain!"

He looked to see the last killer running for his life. He'd been wounded in the scuffle, but that hadn't slowed him in the least. The assassin had already left the Club grounds and sprinted some distance down the dirt street toward the milling villagers, vegetable stands, shacks, and rickety cattle corrals.

"Bloody jackrabbit," Quatermain said, and turned to the bartender. "Bruce, it's time for Matilda."

The barman reverently pulled an elephant gun from behind the bar. "Matilda, sir." He tossed the long weapon to Quatermain, who caught it in mid-stride on his way to the Club doorway.