F. Paul Wilson: Hardbingers

The trio with the girl had heard the sound of the door—how could they not?—and drawn long knives.

The three men in black burst in with drawn pistols.

"Who the fuck're you?" said the artist.

The big guy pointed a suppressed H-K Tactical at him and fired. The bullet hit him in the nose and flung him back against the table. He hung there against Cailin's body, then slithered to the floor, very dead. The other two immediately dropped their knives and raised their hands. But the big guy wasn't impressed. With no hesitation and no sign of emotion he shot each once in the head.

Phut!

Phut!

"Damn you, Miller!" the middle-size guy shouted. "What'd you do that for? What's the matter with you?"

Miller bolstered his pistol. "Just improving the gene pool."

"What about the plan? Tag them and track them, see where they hang out. See if there's any more like them. Remember that? Ever occur to you that they inürht have been useful alive?"

"Buncha fucktards. Nothing useful ever coming from them." The corners of his mouth curled up in a barely noticeable smile. "Least not now anyways."

The medium guy shook his head. "All right, let's wrap her up and get her out of here."

"Let Zeklos do it. He's gotta be good for something.""

The third, a buck-toothed weasel guy, shot him a venomous look, then approached Cailin.

What the hell?

Jack could still call the police, but the group would be long gone before they got here. Besides, he wanted to know what was going on. Who were these guys? And what did they plan to do with Cailin?

He pulled a knit cap from his jacket pocket. Had an idea of how to find out.

4

Cal Davis averted his eyes from the girl as Zeklos began unstrapping her from the table. He wanted to stare at her, the red pubic fuzz, the small pink-tipped breasts. He didn't like the feelings bubbling up from his core.

"She breathing?"

"Yes," Zeklos said. "I should leave the tape?"

"Definitely."

He didn't want her making a racket if she came to.

He looked at Miller staring at the girl. Didn't even bother with a corner-of-the-eye sneak. Just flat out stared.

Goddamn loose cannon.

"This really pisses me off," Cal told him. "You could have waited till I pumped them a little."

Miller shrugged, still staring at the girl. "The 0 told us we had to get here and stop them." His smile blinked like a faulty neon sign. Bzzt : on. Bzzt : off. "We're here, and they're stopped. End of story."

Typical Miller.

"Okay," Zeklos said. "She is ready."

Cal looked and saw that he'd wrapped her in a sheet from the top of her head to her soles. She could have been a carpet except for the twin bulges of her breasts. He turned back to Miller.

"All right. I'll go up and check topside. Zeklos gets the car door. When I give the signal, hustle her up and put her in the front passenger seat. I'll take the wheel."

Miller frowned. "Why do I have to carry her?"

"Because you are beast of burden," Zeklos said, his accent thicker than usual.

Miller cocked a fist and stepped toward him. The little man flinched and backed up a step, almost tripping over one of the corpses. Miller smiled— bzzt —and lowered his fist.

Cal gritted his teeth. "Need I remind you two lover boys that we have an unconscious teenage girl and three corpses on our hands at the moment. I'd prefer not to have to explain them."

Zeklos sulked. "He keeps pulling the rope of anger."

Miller shrugged and gathered up the girl. Cal followed Zeklos up the steps. As the little man crossed to the car and opened the door, someone started yelling.

"Where's my money, damn it? I want my goddamn money!"

He saw a bearded demento with a sign around his neck standing by the rear bumper, pounding on the tailgate.

"My money, goddamn it!"

Cal looked up and down the sidewalk. Cold night. Not many pedestrians, and none of them close. Just the hobo.

Perfect.

Always good to be seen by at least one person, and the loonier the better.

He signaled Miller in the stairwell.

"Let's go!"

As Miller hit street level with his bundle, Zeklos left the door open and hustled around the front of the car to the street side. Cal followed.

And still the bum rattled on about his goddamn money.

As Cal slipped behind the wheel, Miller folded the girl onto the floor in front of the passenger seat. Cal started the car and had it moving as soon as Miller hit the rear seat beside Zeklos.

The hobo got in one more thump against the tailgate and then he was a dwindling, fist-waving figure in the rearview mirror.

"All right," said Zeklos, rolling the "r" harder than usual. "Now that we have girl, what we do with her?"

"Right good question," said a voice from the rear that belonged to neither Miller nor Zeklos—unless one of them had developed a Southern drawl.

Cal instinctively hit the brakes and looked in the rearview. He saw Miller sitting stiff and wide-eyed, saw Zeklos turning his head.

"Eyes straight ahead," the voice snapped. "And you—driver man—keep on a-movin'."

Cal complied. All he could make out in the rearview was part of a third silhouette behind Miller.

The guy drawled on. "Ah've got the muzzle of m'Glock pressed against the base of Miller's skull here. Kinda wish Ah could add a sound effect, like cocking the hammer, but as you boys pro'ly know, Clocks ain't got no external hammer. But Ah've got the trigger safety depressed and Ah'll put one through Miller as quickly as he did those three creeps a few minutes ago. Quicker, maybe. So, 'less you want to be puttin' in a call to Mister Wolfe, Ah suggest y'all stay calm and do what yer told."

Cal felt sweat begin to collect in his armpits. This guy knew their names. And he knew what Miller did in the cellar. How? Unless he'd been there, or had a video camera hidden, or was one of the Satanists—

But he'd called them creeps.

Cal slowed his dervishing thoughts. Never mind who or why or how. Deal with the now. That was how he'd been trained.

What could he tell about this guy? Only his voice to go on. Caucasian male for sure. Between thirty and forty, he guessed. But that growly accent didn't ring true. Sounded like a bad imitation of Andy Griffith. Which meant he was probably a northeasterner hiding his roots.'

Didn't matter if it sounded phony, though. It did the trick: If someday any of them ever heard his real voice, they'd never recognize it.

With a stab of chagrin Cal realized that the bum banging on the tailgate hadn't been crazy. He'd been shouting at their visitor.

Okay. Be cool. Lighten things up a bit.

"What'd you do? Rip off that old wino's change cup?"

The guy ignored him.

"First thing we do is collect all the bang-bangs. Driver man, you hand yer purty H-K over yer shoulder butt first. And be real easy 'bout it. Nuthin' cute."

Hell, he even knew what they were packing.

"Then skinny here will hand it back to me the same way."

Cal did as he was told, followed by Zeklos and Miller surrendering theirs.

"Ah do appreciate it," said the guy. "Hey-hey. Forty-fives. Big 'uns. But Ah guess y'all'd want subsonic rounds if you're gonna use suppressors."

This guy knew his stuff.

"Now, Ah know y'all got backups, so send them back too."

A minute later all three backups were out of reach.

"Good. We're off to a fine, fine start. I love these Suburbians, don't you? So roomy in the back. Why looky here—bags o' street clothes. This what you wear when you're out of uniform? I think I'll just nab one of these here shoppin' bags. Right accommodatin' of y'all to make it so handy."

Definitely a put-on accent.

From the rear came the sound of their weapons dropping into a bag.