Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

Cassandra tossed the corpse of the bearded assassin over one shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’ll tell you all you need to know. How about changing your clothes? You don’t want your mother to see you covered with dirt. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the bodies.”

“Whatever you say,” declared Jack. “I’ll meet you at the car in half an hour.”

“Sounds good,” said Cassandra. Then, before he could wander off, she grabbed him by an arm. Barely exerting any pressure, there was incredible power in the Amazon’s fingers.

“Stay alert, Jack,” she warned. “If someone wants you dead, there’s a good chance they sent out more than one kill squad. There could be another bunch of assassins back at camp.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” promised Jack, feeling very melodramatic. “One brush with death a day is my limit.”

Walking as quietly as possible through the woods, Jack considered the morning’s events. As usual, things were taking place at a much faster rate than he preferred.

In most of the fantasy novels he read, the hero always had long periods of time when nothing happened. That was when the brilliant hero finally put all the facts together and came up with the startling deductions that saved the day. Jack shook his head in disgust. Most of his thinking was done while running from one supernatural menace after another. What little free time he had, he usually spent recuperating or sleeping.

Concentrating, he tried to recall anything else his father had ever said about his mother. They had met when his dad was in Europe on a business trip thirty years ago. Other than the odd match she made with his father—she was tall, busty, and blonde, while his father was short, dark, and slender—he couldn’t think of anything the least bit unusual about her. She made a wonderful peanut butter, lettuce, and mayo sandwich; enjoyed working for the family export business; and owned a horse named Flying Feet that she rode once a week on Saturday.

Her two pet ravens, Hugo and Mongo, she kept outside in a special birdhouse in the backyard. They often disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, but they always came back. Thinking back to his earliest childhood, Jack couldn’t remember a time when the birds hadn’t been around. He wondered, idly, if his mother was a witch and the birds were her familiars.

Somehow, he couldn’t imagine his mom as a witch. Especially not after having met a witch named Hazel who lived in the trailer camp along with her cat, Sylvester. With a mental shrug, he pushed the idea from his mind. As Cassandra had stated, he would learn the truth soon enough. He was nearing his trailer. Time to watch out for strangers.

Fortunately, no one suspicious was about. Jack hurriedly changed into a pair of good slacks and a sport shirt. He also managed to wash his face and comb his hair before heading over to the parking lot where he was to meet Cassandra. After all, though his mother might be a witch or a sorceress or one of a dozen other types of supernatural entities, first and foremost, she was still his mom.

Cassandra waited patiently by the side of a 1967 Buick Electra. Piled at her feet were three AK-47 automatic rifles, a trio of mismatched handguns, five knives, over a dozen hand grenades, and several lethal-looking items Jack didn’t recognize. The Amazon looked grim. The blood drained from Jack’s face.

“Where did the heavy armament come from?” he asked.

“Courtesy of our friends in the woods,” replied Cassandra, “This stuff was all I could carry. You should’ve seen the stuff I left behind. Those characters were walking arsenals. They definitely meant business, Jack. What they lacked in style and grace, they made up in firepower.”

“Aren’t hand grenades illegal?” he asked, not able to think of much else to say.

Cassandra shrugged. “I doubt if they worried about the police.”

Reaching down, she lifted a cloth sack off the ground. Inside it, something wiggled. “I dislike modern weapons,” said the Amazon. “Guns are so… uncivilized. So I brought along my own secret weapon.”

“You’re expecting another attack?” he asked.

“They found us at the camp,” answered Cassandra. “I discovered a radio transmitter back in the woods. Which probably means that their confederates realize the first attack failed. Chances seem pretty good that they’ll try again. I’d be very surprised if we make it to the city without an encounter.”

“But we’ll be on the highway,” he declared. “Nobody fires a gun on a highway.”

Cassandra smiled. “Ever hear of drive-by shootings, my naive young friend? Assassins don’t worry about breaking city or state ordinances,” She patted the mysterious sack, which shook violently under her touch. “Better we’re prepared than dead.”

Jack nodded unhappily, Cassandra actually appeared quite cheerful. Which was not surprising. As an Amazon, she lived for danger. Violent action defined her existence. The one thing she never walked away from was a fight.

“You think they’ll try an ambush on the road instead of waiting till we get to the city?” he asked, opening the door to the Buick.

“If I wanted to kill someone,” answered the Amazon, sliding into the driver’s seat, “I couldn’t think of a better location than the Chicago highway system.”

“The traffic is murder,” admitted Jack.

“The major roads are always under construction,” stated Cassandra, turning the key in the ignition. “There’s potholes big enough to swallow a truck. Drivers in this area are the worst tailgaters in the country. Entrance ramps barely exist, making high-speed merges a crapshoot. Everyone drives twenty miles above the posted limit.” She grinned. “Who would notice a few guys shooting at each other from car windows?”

“Well,” said Jack, settling back in the sedan’s lush seat, “at least this car’s built like a tank. I remember you saying that when we bought it. And it does have its secrets.”

The Buick was no ordinary vehicle. It had been rebuilt inside and out by Fritz Grondark, one of the fabled dwarven mechanics. Already possessing one of the biggest engines ever put in an automobile, the magically enhanced Buick was capable of outrunning anything on the road. Incredibly responsive to its driver’s touch, it could make impossible turns and stop in half the time of a normal vehicle. The unmarked condition of its exterior proclaimed that it could not be scratched or dented. Jack wondered if that also meant the car was bulletproof. He hoped so.

Stepping on the gas, Cassandra gunned the car onto the country road that led from the trailer camp to the highway into town. Nervously, Jack kept a lookout for anyone following them.

The first fifteen minutes passed without incident. Jack liked jazz while Cassandra preferred classical music. After much debate, they settled on an oldies station. Weekday traffic was light and they made good time. Cassandra kept their car in the middle lane, maintaining several car lengths between them and any other vehicles. The mysterious sack remained untouched in the backseat.

“Seat belt fastened?” she casually asked Jack, adjusting the rearview mirror as she spoke.

“Of course,” he answered. “Why?”

“It’s against the law to sit in the front without your belt buckled,” said the Amazon. “Besides, there’s two cars coming up fast behind us. I think company’s arrived.”

Turning, Jack caught a glimpse of a pair of black Cadillacs a half dozen car lengths behind them. There were two men in each car—one driving while the other was in the rear seat. Jack noted they were dressed in the same khaki greens as his earlier attackers.

“If they’re pros,” said Cassandra, “one car will pull up on our side while the other remains behind. That gives them a second chance if we manage to evade the first attempt.”