sickly sticky feel of the blood I had spilled spreading beneath my bare toes, and eased his gun from the holster. The cold, dead weight of it felt strange in my hand as I walked down the hallway, leaving ruby treads on the beige carpet, and fired a round into the lock of the bathroom door.
It was the first time that I had ever fired a gun, and it seemed odd to me; the way it jumped and bucked in my hand, the noise of it.
The door swung open on oiled hinges onto a strange scene, suddenly disturbed. Corg was on the floor, the stone tiles covered in shattered glass from the basin cabinet mirror that glittered under the soft light. There were cuts all over his right hand which was clamped around the wrist of another masked assailant, the twin of the one adorning the kitchen linoleum. This one held a knife poised over Corg’s eye in the gripped hand and had shards of glittering glass clinging to his mask. They both looked at me as I entered, intruding on their bizarre theatre.
I raised the gun and the second, third and fourth time I fired it also felt strange. It seemed to take a long time for the thunder in the small room to die away and stop bouncing off the tiled walls. The cordite smell lingered longer still.
"Shit," Corg breathed at long last, releasing the limp hand still held in his vice like grip. He looked around the now mostly red room; the tiles, the bath, the floor. "Shit," he said again at last, then took a deep, steadying breath. "Was that your storm?"
I held out a hand and helped him to his feet as we both heard the sounds of movement, heavy feet double-timing on the stairwell.
"The start of it," I replied.
Quinn stood in the shadows across from Corg’s building, his agitation growing with every passing minute. He’d watched the targets stumble into the forgotten grandeur of the apartment complex, seemingly blind drunk, watched as the lights went on in the hallway, waited for the all clear from Cry and Rollins, lurking inside.
Since then some twenty tense, expectant minutes had ticked by with all the speed of poured honey. He glanced at his time-piece again, staring long and hard at the dull digits. It was dark in the alley and quiet, the only sound the tin-can timpani of droplets drumming against metal trash can lids.
The falling rain pattered too, monotonously, off his mask, echoing the mental ticking of seconds in his head. This was his first outing as task master and he really didn’t relish the idea of screwing it up.
The tension tightening in his belly was being echoed in the men waiting behind him in the gloom, he knew – he could feel it pouring off them in waves, the darkness thick with anxious sweat. Somewhere behind the cloud a cold moon struggled to cast its weak half light onto the street.
Quinn stared at the smudge of light against the nebulous smog and weighed up his position. One more consultation with the watch. Instructions were to go in quick and quiet, no unnecessary publicity, no collateral, no noise. Wychelo had already made enough of a ruckus at Central Station and they were playing catch up for his regrettable dramatic flair.
The man was a liability, Quinn thought, unmanageable, messy – sure, he was good at killing people, but so too was a scorpion and just because you put a leash on one it doesn’t make it any more reliable. The fire at the funeral parlor should have been the end of it but there were always loose ends, always gaps in communication.
It had been too long already. Worse still, he’d felt the whisper that Wychelo might be stalking the night and the thought of those odd eyes watching, creeping up on him out of the darkness, set his teeth on edge so much his jaw ached. He raised a hand, fist clenched.
"We’re going in," he hissed to the waiting assembled troops. Their relief was palpable. Give them a good fight any day, he thought, but this waiting was murder.
"Quiet as we can. Goggles on, at the ready. Hendriks, soon as we get in be ready, at my
It was the first time that I had ever fired a gun, and it seemed odd to me; the way it jumped and bucked in my hand, the noise of it.
The door swung open on oiled hinges onto a strange scene, suddenly disturbed. Corg was on the floor, the stone tiles covered in shattered glass from the basin cabinet mirror that glittered under the soft light. There were cuts all over his right hand which was clamped around the wrist of another masked assailant, the twin of the one adorning the kitchen linoleum. This one held a knife poised over Corg’s eye in the gripped hand and had shards of glittering glass clinging to his mask. They both looked at me as I entered, intruding on their bizarre theatre.
I raised the gun and the second, third and fourth time I fired it also felt strange. It seemed to take a long time for the thunder in the small room to die away and stop bouncing off the tiled walls. The cordite smell lingered longer still.
"Shit," Corg breathed at long last, releasing the limp hand still held in his vice like grip. He looked around the now mostly red room; the tiles, the bath, the floor. "Shit," he said again at last, then took a deep, steadying breath. "Was that your storm?"
I held out a hand and helped him to his feet as we both heard the sounds of movement, heavy feet double-timing on the stairwell.
"The start of it," I replied.
Quinn stood in the shadows across from Corg’s building, his agitation growing with every passing minute. He’d watched the targets stumble into the forgotten grandeur of the apartment complex, seemingly blind drunk, watched as the lights went on in the hallway, waited for the all clear from Cry and Rollins, lurking inside.
Since then some twenty tense, expectant minutes had ticked by with all the speed of poured honey. He glanced at his time-piece again, staring long and hard at the dull digits. It was dark in the alley and quiet, the only sound the tin-can timpani of droplets drumming against metal trash can lids.
The falling rain pattered too, monotonously, off his mask, echoing the mental ticking of seconds in his head. This was his first outing as task master and he really didn’t relish the idea of screwing it up.
The tension tightening in his belly was being echoed in the men waiting behind him in the gloom, he knew – he could feel it pouring off them in waves, the darkness thick with anxious sweat. Somewhere behind the cloud a cold moon struggled to cast its weak half light onto the street.
Quinn stared at the smudge of light against the nebulous smog and weighed up his position. One more consultation with the watch. Instructions were to go in quick and quiet, no unnecessary publicity, no collateral, no noise. Wychelo had already made enough of a ruckus at Central Station and they were playing catch up for his regrettable dramatic flair.
The man was a liability, Quinn thought, unmanageable, messy – sure, he was good at killing people, but so too was a scorpion and just because you put a leash on one it doesn’t make it any more reliable. The fire at the funeral parlor should have been the end of it but there were always loose ends, always gaps in communication.
It had been too long already. Worse still, he’d felt the whisper that Wychelo might be stalking the night and the thought of those odd eyes watching, creeping up on him out of the darkness, set his teeth on edge so much his jaw ached. He raised a hand, fist clenched.
"We’re going in," he hissed to the waiting assembled troops. Their relief was palpable. Give them a good fight any day, he thought, but this waiting was murder.
"Quiet as we can. Goggles on, at the ready. Hendriks, soon as we get in be ready, at my
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