Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  No, they weren’t going to attack him. They’d realized somehow that he was too hard a hit. So they’d thrown the circuit breakers to throw the hotel into darkness, and now they’d be moving fast for the room, knowing Soloman would be coming even faster to intercept them. It was the oldest rule of hunting; it was far easier to lure in a kill than stalk a kill.

  With a curse Soloman leaped the hood of a car and went into the stairwell, expecting to be hit instantly. But he didn’t give a damn because he was in a hot mode to kill anything that got in his way regardless of what happened to him in return. He ascended the first steps quickly, and as he reached the fifth, he dropped sharply into it with breath fast, eyes tunneling. He angled the Grizzly through the darkness, toward the railing above.

  Nothing.

  Heart pounding in his ears, afraid that he had lost a measure of alertness in the volcanic adrenaline rush, Soloman moved more slowly, feeling for the faint movement of air that would reveal another presence, hoping to kill here and now, to control the situation. Then he reached the landing and started up the stairs of the second flight, knowing they would probably have night vision.

  Cold perspiration streaked his face as he flattened his back against the door leading to their floor. Then he took a second to thumb back the hammer of the Grizzly, eyes closing briefly in sweat-soaked shock. He was tempted to open the door hard but decided to do it slowly, inch by inch.

  He revealed nothing of his body, gave them nothing. And in a moment, he’d opened the door enough to slide through, but hesitated. He glared into the hallway and saw nothing but black. He couldn’t even see the door to their room, less than six feet away.

  “Damn,” he whispered, shaking his head.

  Not good.

  He knew without doubt that they were close to him, probably less than twenty feet away. Just as he realized that their tactics would be brutally simple and effective. Probably, one of them would be waiting in the hall, night vision set for infrared, an M16 on full auto. And as soon as he walked into the hall, blind as a bat, the hitter would open up.

  “Christ Almighty,” he whispered as he bent, blinking sweat from his eyes in frustration.

  He cast a single glance into the darkness behind him, toward the downward flight of stairs. He knew another hitter could be moving up directly behind him, and he wouldn’t even be able to identify the threat. But he couldn’t stand here all night. He had to do something and do it quickly, before they trapped him in a cross fire. Breathless with fear, he knew there was no easy way out. He had to make a suicide move.

  Move!

  Create the situation!

  With a hard jerk he threw back the door and stepped boldly into the hall, instantly leveling the Grizzly as if he could see everything, though he could see nothing at all. He moved silently step by step toward the place where the door should be and froze listening.

  Waiting.

  He heard nothing but adrenalized breath, his own.

  He reached out to grasp the doorknob, felt the wall.

  Damn!

  He’d gone too far!

  The door was behind him, somewhere to the left. He slowly eased back, glaring into the hallway, searching, sensing, feeling. Then the current shifted behind him and he spun to—

  Hit!

  He roared at the pain and twisted.

  Knife!

  Soloman howled as pain sliced his shoulder, and he swept his left arm around violently, slamming the attacker massively against the wall. The blade was torn from his muscle, and Soloman felt a hard hand gripping his neck, a vicious curse. Desperately he head-butted, stunning the attacker, and in the next split-second he kicked out to throw himself back across the hall, raising the Grizzly to fire as he sailed back.

  The blinding strobe lit the corridor, and Soloman glimpsed a black-cloaked figure rolling wide to the side, expertly evading the round. But Soloman caught the direction and retargeted instantly, knowing the hitter could move only so fast in a roll. As the man reached his feet Soloman spread a figure-eight pattern of deafening rounds.

  Stunned by the blasts of the Grizzly, Soloman half heard Maggie screaming his name over and over from inside the room. Then there was a wounded grunt in the hall, a staggering.

  Tracking, Soloman fired twice again.

  Heard something thick strike the floor.

  Breathless, faint and sweating, Soloman dropped the clip and reloaded, glaring left and right. He didn’t know if he’d killed or not, but he was ready to set something on fire to find out.

  Alive with fighting instinct he moved down the hall, the Grizzly held close, his other hand high. His shoulder burned, but he ignored it. He knew he’d been stabbed and that a knife wound could cripple in seconds if it cut a nerve or major artery. But the fact that he was still on his feet and vividly alert told him it was a minor injury. The hit-man had missed.

  Gingerly Soloman swept a foot, searching.

  Touched something.

  A foot.

  Killer instinct decided, and Soloman aimed down at the body to fire five times, knowing from the sound of impact that he had hit the torso. He had no compunctions against shooting a dead man, and if the man had been alive trying to lure Soloman in for a kill, he wasn’t anymore.

  Trying to control his out-of-control spiraling stress, Soloman dropped the half-empty clip and inserted another in a tactical reload. With one down and at least one to go, he wanted a full magazine. Then he moved backward toward the room, not even bothering to look behind himself because he couldn’t see anything anyway.

  Frantic, Maggie’s voice howled through the door.

  “Soloman!”

  Freezing in place, tilting his head, Soloman didn’t answer.

  Something ...

  Was there.

  Beneath her scream he’d heard something, a whisper of sound ...

  Now no sound at all.

  Something had crept to him, something silent and chilling. And slowly Soloman turned, the Grizzly close, feeling the air, the shadows, all of it in absolute silence.

  Drops of perspiration fell from his chin, his face. Blood steadily soaked his shoulder, a lot of it, and he tried to keep his concentration off the pain. If he could only identify a direction he could—

  Movement ...

  Soloman stopped breathing, listened.

  His hand locked blood-wet on the Grizzly.

  There was something there. He felt it, sensed it close too close, and he gritted his teeth in tension, raising the Grizzly to shoot from the hip. He couldn’t level to aim because if they were using swords, which he had felt in the struggle, he would lose an arm.

  Turning his head, cold in sweat, he tried to find the faintest alteration of darkness, but there was nothing, only endless dark that made this seem like another world, and his grip tightened even more on the pistol. He was about to get hit again, he knew. There was no way out of it. But he was determined to return it in full and take out whoever was moving before him.

  Hearing Maggie’s voice in the background and trying to shut it out,

  Soloman waited, but nothing came. Nothing but a surreal invisible presence that made his skin crawl.

  You don’t have time for this!

  Move!

  A thousand combat situations from Force Recon missions made the decision for him. Soloman had been here so often that doing it was a reflex.

  Teeth clenched in tension, he moved forward, toward the last place from which he had heard a sound, knowing the man was wearing night-vision goggles and was probably already on top of him. But he felt somehow that the second assassin was also using a sword; he would have already opened fire if he were using a gun. Emboldened by fatalistic courage, Soloman took a second step into the hall, moving toward the stairwell.

  He knew the attack would come when the space to his back was greatest, when he left
an opening. And since the man hadn’t hit him yet, Soloman reasoned that the hitter was in front of him, waiting for him to turn.

  Slowly, Soloman turned, triggered to react.

  As soon as he gave the hitter an opportunity, he would move close to strike for Soloman’s neck, the surest killing point with an edged weapon. But with that, at least, Soloman felt an advantage. Because he had the Grizzly, if he could only see what to shoot.

  Soloman wasn’t sure anymore of his bearings.

  He tilted his head in the obscure gloom of the hall, listening, stilling his breath. Sweat fell from his lips and he tried to get a fix on a man that he knew was standing only feet away. His hand tightened on the pistol as he trembled, knowing it could come at any—

  NOW!

  Soloman ducked as he was hit from behind and half-whirled for a shot that exploded between the two of them. He knew instantly that he’d missed, the blast going wide. Then he was carried suddenly past the wall by a colossal impact into the stairwell!

  He twisted in midair, viciously slamming the hitter’s body beneath him, forcing him to absorb the impact. Then they were careening down the stones, spinning in a revolving whirlwind of punishing blows and roaring black space. Soloman sensed the sword sweeping in wild blows that he eluded again and again as he repeatedly fired the Grizzly, hitting at least once, then missing clean in the chaos with fire joining them as the slide locked. Frantically he pulled and pulled the trigger to nothing and realized in shock that he had to change clips in the midst of this—

  Down!

  Soloman ducked as the blade passed over his head.

  Emergency reload!

  They collided and half-twisted, half-rolled to the first landing, and the sword lit the darkness for a split second as a savage swipe struck sparks from the rail. Half-light! Streetlight! It hit them at once.

  Soloman glimpsed a horrific and haunting silhouette before him, dark and gigantic. Then he caught the keen reflection of the sword rising, and he leaped inside the man’s reach, colliding hard.

  The stunning impact took them down the last flight, neither landing an effective blow, and as they crashed on the lowest level Soloman recovered fastest. He shouted as he bridged the gap and hurled a hard sidekick that struck deep into his attacker’s chest. At the impact, leaping back and away, Soloman dropped the empty clip. Reload! Reload!

  With a howl the man came off the wall, his arm raised high, and Soloman threw himself back to the wall, slamming in another magazine and leveling as the man came over him like the Grim Reaper, the sword falling to—

  Soloman fired.

  He pulled the trigger as fast as he could, the thunderous point-blank rounds hitting solid center-mass again and again. He watched wildly as the hitter staggered slowly back, and the slide finally locked.

  Face cloaked by a black hood, the man stood in place for a bizarre and eerie moment, staring. Then he swayed, the sword falling from his hand, and in a strange, slow descent fell backwards.

  Breathless, stunned and shocked, Soloman struggled for a moment, trying to realize whether he was still alive or not. Dazed, he laboriously pulled out the empty magazine and inserted another as he came up on one knee, wondering if he was dying.

  He dropped the slide to chamber a round and cursed with the agony of fresh slicing wounds as he stood. And after a moment he bent over the dead man, wiping sweat from his face with a bloody forearm, blood and sweat stinging together. He saw that the hit-man was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles and with a slow effort removed them; he could use them later.

  In the glow of distant white light streaming through the doorway Soloman saw the peculiar short sword and picked it up. He knew immediately that it was a formidable weapon, vaguely resembling a saber. Then he dropped it from his bloody hand and began to find calm, instinct assuring him that this was the last for the night.

  Frowning down at the black-cloaked form, Soloman turned away.

  “Never bring a knife to a gunfight,” he said.

  ***

  “Soloman!” Maggie screamed.

  Trembling, she centered the shotgun on the door as Marcelle watched the window. And Mary Francis stood behind her, stoic and calm, also staring at the door. Her old voice cut though the terror.

  “Be calm, Maggie,” she said. “Don’t shoot until you see something.”

  “Grab a napkin!” Maggie shouted. “Put it in a plate and set it on fire with a match. Just get me some light!”

  Mary Francis obeyed instantly, burning a napkin with Marcelle’s lighter, and the room was visible.

  Holding the butt of the shotgun against her ribs, Maggie prepared to shoot from the waist. “Everybody stay back from the door,” she whispered. “Don’t get between me and them. They’re gonna pay.”

  She flinched as someone shouted at the door.

  “Maggie! Don’t shoot! It’s me!”

  “Soloman!”

  She threw the shotgun on the bed as she ran to the door and opened it quickly, catching him as he stumbled through. He turned and shut the panel, locking it with the deadbolt.

  “Get everything together!” Soloman shouted, leaning against the panel. “Do it now!”

  Maggie was around him. “What happened?”

  “A couple of people got themselves killed,” he answered, blowing sweat from his lips. “They’re still on the stairway, and we’ve got to get out of here fast. We can’t let the locals get their hands on us.”

  Moving instantly, Maggie shoved clothes into a suitcase. It took less than five seconds, and she turned, glaring. “We’re ready, Sol.”

  “Stay close to me. If anything happens, drop to the ground. But don’t get involved. But if I go down, run for the front desk. They probably won’t come after you if there’s any witnesses.” He took a deep breath, glanced at the bed. “Give me the shotgun and the incendiaries, Maggie.”

  She lifted them.

  “All right,” he whispered wearily, taking them as he wiped sweat from his face with a shoulder. “We’re going for the stairwell. I’ll go first. I want all of you to stay six feet behind me in a tight group. Hold onto each other. When we get outside run for the car but don’t open any of the doors until I make sure it’s not wired. It’ll take me sixty seconds. You got it?”

  They nodded.

  “Good. Let’s move.”

  He opened the door, and the shotgun led the way. He slung the daypack of grenades over his shoulder and held the M3 close, leveled, adjusting aim at every corner though he could see nothing. He knew only that at the first hint of hostile movement he was going to give a single short warning, and if it continued to approach he was going to fire.

  Together they followed him down the hallway and into the dark stairwell, finally sensing their own somber silhouettes in the faint streetlight. Maggie recognized the coppery smell of blood in the hallway, and it was even stronger as she turned on the landing. In the streetlight she sighted a powerfully large, black-cloaked figure at the bottom of the stairs. But it was not so large as Cain, so she knew it wasn’t over.

  As Soloman went through the exit she saw that his back was blackened with blood. He was wounded, she realized for the first time. She silently cursed herself for not sensing it in the room, but in her relief to see him alive she had missed the signs. And now she was doing well just to obey his instructions, as were all of them.

  Casting a single contemptuous glance down, she stepped coldly over the dead man and the widening pool. They reached the car without incident and Soloman checked it fast, moving with skill. “It’s clear,” he whispered painfully as he crawled from beneath, leaving a wide smear of blood on the pavement. He gained his feet with an expression of exhaustion.

  Let’s go.

  Together they moved as they caught the distant sounds of sirens approaching. And as the gathering lights descended upon them Soloman cleared the ga
te on parking lights, hurling them into darkness and a graveyard with grisly black trees.

  All there was.

  ***

  Kano knelt.

  Seated upon the noble stone throne, Cain waited. His eyes gleamed red in the torchlight as he caressed the massive mandrill which crouched at his side, a thick, steel chain locked about its neck.

  Glaring and sensing Kano’s instinctive fear, the malevolent beast suddenly lashed out and with a startled shout the warlock drew back, falling on the steps. With a frightful stare he regained his feet, trembling.

  Cain’s hand settled on the beast’s neck, crushing to bring a whine. “Do not fear this puppet, my child,” he growled – a growl even more animal than the beast’s. “It is not for you that he hungers. So, tell me, what of Raphael and Cassiel? Have they eliminated Soloman?”

  Kano faltered. “I ... I do not believe so, my Lord. We have received reports that two men were found dead at the hotel where our enemies were staying. I do not believe that Soloman was killed.”

  Frowning, Cain glared at the black-cloaked figure. “Your people are skilled, Kano. I am disappointed. Surely you understand the consequences of failure.”

  “Yes, yes; I understand, my Lord.”

  “Go.” Cain shook his head, grimacing. “Go and prepare. Soloman will surely come for the child. And I do not desire another confrontation with him. I have perceived ... something.”

  He paused too long.

  “Set everyone in place,” he continued, “and tell them that no one eats or sleeps until Soloman is finally destroyed. Also inform them that I will be roaming these corridors to make certain my commands are obeyed. Then advise them that whoever brings me the head of Soloman will receive double all the pleasures he desires.”

  Kano bowed. “I will tell them, my Lord.”

  “Tell them quickly,” Cain rumbled, glaring wrathfully into the dark. “Soloman is an enemy that should be feared.”

  “Of course, my Lord! But Soloman is only flesh! And flesh cannot conquer a god such as yourself!”

  Cain’s eyes narrowed.

  “Can it not?” he rumbled. “Have you lived so long? And are you so wise? And is flesh so frail?” His eyes were lionish. “Tell me, Kano, what do you think of David – the warrior-king of the Hebrews?”