Jason Frost - The cutthroat

But before he could tell the young musician and lord of Liar's Cove what he wanted, Eric exploded out of the water and jammed the hanger over his head, pulling it tight around the ragged throat, and twisting off the slack wire. Rhino's head jerked back as he clawed behind him for a piece of Eric. Eric leaned back, his knees lodged hard against Rhino's spine as he pulled on the hanger, constantly twisting the wire tighter. With each twist the black wire bit deeper into Rhino's windpipe.

Rhino's sputtering was a choked hiss. His small hands flailed blindly behind him, occasionally brushing some part of Eric's body, but not enough for those iron fingers to grab hold. He tried shaking his attacker off, but Eric rode him like a bucking bronco, yanking hard on the hanger, twisting the wire tighter and tighter.

The normal half of Rhino's face turned red, then white, then blue, but the scarred half maintained its lifeless marble color. With the terror of death slowly enveloping him, Rhino gave one last mournful cry, shrugging his shoulders like Atlas hefting off the world. Eric flipped up into the air, still holding onto the hook of the hanger with one hand. As he came back down again, Rhino was struggling to loosen the hanger with one hand, and reaching for Eric with the other. He managed to snag a handful of Eric's hair and was pulling him over his shoulder.

Eric had lost position, his knees no longer wedged into Rhino's huge back. He felt the stronger man's insistent power pulling him forward by the hair. He tried tightening the hanger more, but he was losing leverage there too. If Rhino managed to get both hands on him again, Eric knew he was done. He didn't have the strength-or time-to fight off another attack from those deadly hands.

Desperately, Eric held onto the hanger with one hand and dug his other hand into Rhino's face, trying to gouge at the eyes as he had before. Only his hands kept slipping from the rubbery scar tissue. Finally he clamped on to the thick ridge of flesh hanging over Rhino's black marble eye and pulled. A hunk of skin came off in his hands!

He could hear the horrified screams of some of the crowd, Tracy among them, and the howls of laughter from the others, drowning Rhino's own tortured wail. The shock of pain and the gushing of blood into his eye, distracted Rhino long enough for Eric to climb back into position. With five quick turns he twisted the hanger tight enough to cut off all the air.

Rhino began to sink into the deep water, weakly clutching at the wire and Eric. Eric stayed in place, knees pressed into the back, leaning backward, pulling on the wire. The muscles and veins bulged on Eric's arms and neck like bridge cables. He gulped a mouthful of air as they went under, Rhino fighting now in slow motion, a dying lump of animal raging against death.

Then nothing.

Eric didn't dismount immediately. He waited, holding his breath, ignoring the stinging in his eyes as he watched through the filthy waters Rhino's lifeless arms float out to the side. When he was satisfied that Rhino wasn't faking, Eric kicked off the dead man's back and broke surface, swimming lazily to the edge of the pool. Tracy and Blackjack helped him out of the water.

The crowd was alternately cheering and booing. Eric saw goods exchanging hands- cartridges, arrows, walnuts, salt-as losers paid their bets.

Eric looked at BeBop. "You owe me a bath."

BeBop's face clenched suddenly with anger. "I don't owe you jackshit, pal. You're alive. Consider yourself lucky."

Eric leveled his stare at the young man, his lips curled into a grim imitation of a smile.

BeBop flinched a little, then shrugged. "All right. You earned it, man. Least I can do for a really big show." He turned around and faced Rhino's crew. "You can fish the whale meat out of the pool and get out of here. You've got an hour." He waved the head of his security force to his side, speaking loud enough for the crowd to appreciate his words. "I want these three to have the run of Liar's Cove for the rest of the day. Anything they want. Within reason." He laughed, wagging a finger at Eric. The crowd cheered again. "Now let's get the hell out of this cesspool," he said, and spit into the pool.

The crowd began pressing and shoving through the doors. As they did, BeBop, a diplomatic smile pasted on his face, stepped up to Eric and whispered, "You'd be wise to be gone from here by morning. And I don't want to see any of you back here for a long, long time. You're bad for business."

Angel liked the dark. It was the only time she felt safe. In control. While others feared the dark, violated its purity with cowardly light, she" thought of it as a kind of thick liquid through which she alone could move. Her own special magic.

She hunkered now in the room shared by Eric, Tracy, and Blackjack, her left hand clutching a stack of six throwing stars, a balisong knife in her pocket. They had been easy to steal from the old man who sold such specialty items in the courtyard. It was fortunate she had not been caught, for BeBop demanded immediate execution of anyone caught stealing within Liar's Cove. Though they were mostly thieves and murderers anyway, he was proud to provide a place where criminals could relax their guard momentarily. But she had not been worried about capture. After all, she had been stealing since she was three years old. Not out of necessity, of course, like the ragtag children of her country. No, she did it merely out of desire. The challenge. Her parents had provided her with plenty of everything. The best that Saigon society could offer. But young Suzette, who would amaze her friends with magnificent gymnastic feats, did not want what was offered. She wanted only what she could take. And she took plenty.

Now she would take three lives.

She had already drawn the heavy curtains to keep out the light, and moved the lamp to another table to confuse them when they entered. Eric would immediately suspect a trap, so she would have to kill him first. Then the black man who thought he was so clever. Finally Eric's woman. If they were still back in Vietnam, in the years when she had her own empire and many men to do her bidding, she would kill them slowly, with special attention to Eric. But now there was no time. She would kill them quickly, lucky for them.

She could almost laugh at the irony of running from Vietnam-both sides wanted her dead-only to end up in a California as ravaged as Vietnam ever had been. The stupid Americans living here thought they were so clever surviving the natural catastrophes. But this was how it had been to live back home for many years. Vietnamese children of six had more survival skills than most of these bloated Americans.

She crouched behind the bed, waiting. If she had learned anything in her adventurous life, it was the virtue of waiting for your prey to come to you. She ignored the various pains that rattled through her body. The dive out the window and leap to the tree had not been without costs. The skin on her left palm had been raked off when she'd grabbed the branch awkwardly. The bark had sandpapered her skin into a raw mush. Her shoulder ached where the muscle had ripped when she'd dropped twenty feet out of the tree. Her lower back muscles burned with a long thick bruise where Tracy had smacked her with her cane, almost knocking her unconscious. She would take special interest in repaying the bitch for that. Perhaps death would be too kind. Yes, maybe mutilation would be more appropriate. Once she had cut off the toe of a man who refused to give her information she wanted to sell. He still refused, playing the brave patriotic soldier. She then forced him to eat his own toe. He told her everything.

She smiled, passing time by deciding which parts of Tracy to amputate.

They were less than thirty feet from the door to their room when Blackjack stopped.