Blown Circuit by Lars Guignard Page B

didn’t go like that. Because before I could turn in to position, Crust turned revealing the heavy wrench he held in his hand. I stood ready with the blade. We were very close. Our bodies were within a couple feet from each other. Sure, I could slash his throat if I had to. But I didn’t want to. I knew a strike to the solar plexus would be just as effective if I wanted to get to the truth. So I dropped the blade, the yatagan falling to the rocky ground below.  
    Crust didn’t take his eyes off me. He was too much of a professional for that. But his body relaxed. I saw it in his shoulders. That’s when I placed a firm hand on his shoulder and punched him hard in the abdomen. A lightning-fast jab, no warning, no pity. I knocked the wind right out of him. He gasped and bent over. It was reflexive, he needed to catch his breath but I didn’t let up. I stepped toward him, slipping my left arm over the arm he held the wrench in. I pulled tight to my side and applied a good strong arm-bar forcing him to drop the wrench. It also put me into position to snap his arm.  
    “Bend your knees,” I said.
    Crust bent his knees.
    “On the ground. Slowly, or I break your arm.”
    Crust complied. To his credit, I didn’t sense that he was angry or even flustered. It seemed as though it was all in a day’s work.
    “Are we done yet?” Crust asked.
    “We’re just getting started,” I said. “Hands on your head.”
    Crust gingerly lifted his big meat-hook hands and placed one on top of the other atop his head. I didn’t have a gun. But Crust did. I could see the bulge poking out from the back of his khakis. I reached down and removed it. A Browning Hi-Power 9mm. Nice weapon. I chambered a round. Then I kicked the yatagan out of his reach and stepped around so I could see his face.  
    “What are you up to, mate?” Crust asked.
    “Staying alive,” I said.
    “Don’t you need a flair for disco and a love of old movies for that?”
    “Cut the shit,” I said. “The question is, what are you doing here?”
    “I got a tip from an asset to meet an agent from Montreal here. That’s Jean-Marc’s cover, but he’s gone dark. Where is he?”
    “Well, that’s a spiritual question isn’t it?”
    “What do you mean by that?” Crust asked.
    “I mean Jean-Marc is dead.”
    I watched Crust’s eyes. It was a surprise to him. I could see that. He was a professional, but he couldn’t keep the shock from showing.  
    “How?”
    I saw no point in beating around the bush.  
    “I killed him,” I said.
    “Why?” Crust replied.
    “You tell me.”
    “How on God’s green earth am I supposed to know that?” Crust said.
    So this was the way it was going to go. Full circle. The exhaust fan on the far end of the wall sparked to life blowing out the garlic odor of the welders’ acetylene gas. Crust was directly in front of me, kneeling on the rocky ground in front of the door, his hands on his head. I held the gun. It was my show now.
    “Jean-Marc asked me two questions,” I said. “Then he tried to slice my throat. I didn’t like the idea. So I sliced his.”
    Which wasn’t technically true. But it got the point across.
    “Did anybody see you?” Crust asked.
    “Yeah. Some old guy in a towel. He’s dead too.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    “Jean-Marc did.”
    Crust sighed deeply. After my announcement that Jean-Marc was dead, it was obvious he wasn’t surprised by anything else I had to say. He was concerned, resigned even, but not surprised, I saw that right away.
    “Why did he attack me?” I asked.
    “That’s a complicated question, Mike. And my knees are starting to hurt.”
    I could see where this was going and it wasn’t good. I was the new guy on the block, the green guy, the guy that gets taken for a ride. I decided I wasn’t going to be that guy.
    I stepped ahead and put the barrel of the Browning to Crust’s head. Then I grabbed Crust’s right thumb and stepped forward again, twisting my body and pulling