The Killing Kind

by Chris Holm

  And he had no idea what to make of the balloon drop.

  So where did that leave him? His assailant hadn’t stirred since Hendricks had taken the guy down, but that didn’t mean he’d stay down; from where Hendricks lay, he couldn’t see him past all the damn balloons. He knew he should finish the guy—eliminate the threat, in the parlance of his former military life. But Leonwood was still on the loose. And the place would soon be surrounded by local PD and Feds, if it hadn’t been already. God only knew if Purkhiser was still breathing.

  Hendricks heard two quick pops—powerful but dulled, an assault rifle with a suppressor. They sounded as though they came from somewhere between his position and the stage. That meant Leonwood was on the move—that he was trying to finish the job.

  Purkhiser, Hendricks thought, must still be alive.

  That fact shouldn’t have mattered to him. If he were half as cold-blooded as he thought he was, it wouldn’t have. Even if Hendricks could stop Leonwood from killing Purkhiser, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever see a dime of the six million he’d been promised. He’d be lucky if he didn’t leave Pendleton’s in shackles—or a body bag.

  But he’d given his word. So, exhausted and bleeding, Hendricks heaved himself up off the table. He clenched his teeth, and with a sharp intake of breath, he closed his left hand around his right wrist and yanked his shoulder back into place. The effort—and the subsequent solar flare of pain—damn near made him faint.

  Once he could bring himself to move again—once he trusted his trembling legs to hold him up—he began scanning the floor for his knife, willing himself to focus despite the chaos around him. By some miracle, he found it, then picked it up and began pushing through the balloons, heading toward the muffled sounds of Leonwood’s continued gunfire.

  Eric Purkhiser’s mind was blank with terror. His mouth moved in silent prayer. Shredded bodies lay across the stage. The avuncular local politician was frozen midsmile, his blood hot and sticky on Purkhiser’s hands and clothes. The burly, dark-skinned security guard with the crew cut was missing half of his head. The weasel-faced casino owner remained relatively unscathed, having taken refuge behind the first wave of the fallen. His pit boss had survived as well, though the bullet wound in his thigh spurted crimson with every beat of his heart, so without help, he likely wouldn’t last much longer.

  Eric himself had taken some shrapnel when the podium exploded, but had somehow avoided getting shot—possibly because, despite both Hendricks’s and Engelmann’s assurances, he’d remained tensed for this eventuality since long before he actually took the stage. He’d taken every opportunity to keep the other people onstage between him and the crowd, and he’d hit the ground at the first sign of trouble—which turned out to be Engelmann and Hendricks engaging. It was only in the silence after Leonwood emptied his first magazine that Purkhiser realized he’d survived the initial onslaught—and when that silence was once more punctured by the sounds of gunfire, he realized he had to move.

  Still, he couldn’t force his mutinous limbs to do his bidding until he saw the sea of balloons that lapped lazily at the shore of the stage part around the grim, determined visage of Leon Leonwood, approaching slowly but with purpose. Somewhere in the distance, law enforcement shouted, and through the flickering of the damaged lights above, Purkhiser saw armored officers positioning themselves on either side of the banquet hall’s entrance. But they were too careful to simply storm the room, too concerned at the prospect of spooking a gunman whom they couldn’t see. That meant they’d be too slow to save him.

  Eric Purkhiser began to crawl.

  He made his way across the stage toward the entrance to the service corridors. Leonwood’s grease-slicked hair was a shark’s fin, parting the balloons as he passed. Occasionally, that hair would halt and a single shot would ring out, silencing some poor soul’s cries.

  Purkhiser reached the stage door and panicked. Just beside it was a square panel of black plastic, an LED embedded in it shining red. A proximity sensor for an ID badge, to prevent those without badge access from entering the corridor. Purkhiser had no such badge and no such access.

  But he knew one of the bodies onstage must.

  The casino owner was sure to have one, he thought, but as he scanned the stage for him the man slithered off the edge on the far side, disappearing beneath the balloons and leaving a trail of blood behind.

  That left the pit boss and the dead guard. The pit boss was in the center of the stage, maybe ten feet from where Purkhiser lay, propped against the back curtain. The dead guard was closer but lay at the front of the stage, toward Leonwood.

  Still on his belly, Purkhiser waved his arms madly, trying to catch the pit boss’s attention. “Hey!” he whispered, as loudly as he dared. “Over here!”

  The pit boss’s head lolled to one side, and his glassy eyes met Purkhiser’s.

  “Can you move? With your badge, you and me could get outta here!”

  The pit boss removed his hand from the wound on his leg and placed his index finger to his lips. “Shhhh...,” he said. Absent pressure, his leg gushed blood. His eyes fluttered, and he was gone.

  A scream. A pop. Purkhiser looked up and realized the gunman had nearly reached the stage. Purkhiser scrabbled on all fours to the fresh corpse of the pit boss. He grabbed the man by his lapels and violently patted him down. He checked the outer patch pocket on his suit coat’s breast, and the inside pocket as well: nothing. The breast pocket of his oxford contained only a hard pack of Camels and a disposable Bic lighter.

  Okay, Purkhiser thought, if it’s not in his jacket, then it’s got to be in his pants.

  He tipped the dead man to one side to check his pants pockets. There—clipped to his belt loop. A retractable key reel, from which the card dangled.

  He snatched at it. His hopes fell.

  The card was in tatters, a bullet hole clean through it.

  He tore it from the man’s belt loop anyway, key reel and all. There was a chance it might still work.

  Purkhiser found his feet and sprinted for the stage door.

  Balloons parted at the foot of the stage, and from them Leonwood’s hulking form emerged. His once-slickeddown hair was now half-wild—greasy parentheses framing his sweaty face.

  Purkhiser reached the door. Leonwood clambered onto the stage. The former moved with the twitchy panic of a trapped animal, the latter with an almost lackadaisical certainty. He bore Purkhiser no malice—or, at least, no more malice than that which he bore the world. It was simply a matter of fact in his mind that Purkhiser had to die, and he was the one who was going to kill him. So he didn’t rush. He didn’t fret. He didn’t even raise his weapon in threat to halt Purkhiser. He just kept coming.

  Purkhiser waved the damaged badge in front of the proximity sensor, the fingers of his free hand lighting on the doorknob so that he could yank it open the second the lock disengaged.

  The lock held.

  He tried again, more frantically. The light on the sensor stayed red. A third time, with exaggerated care. Still nothing happened. He slapped the badge against the sensor, but it was no use. The card was ruined.

  Purkhiser leaned heavily against the door. His legs failed him, and he slid down its cold, steel surface. He saw a blur of checkered gray, the blended fabric taking on a sickly sheen beneath the stage lights, and then Leonwood’s shadow fell across him.

  Purkhiser closed his eyes. Hot steel pressed against his temple, searing a brand into his skin, but still, he did not move.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, have you been a pain in my ass,” Leonwood said. A hysterical laugh escaped Purkhiser’s lips—he could think of no better eulogy from the universe than that. His bladder emptied. He quaked with fear the likes of which he’d never felt before. It hit him with the force of a seizure.

  The barrel tightened against his temple as Leonwood’s arm tensed for the shot.

  A keening wail rose in Purkhiser’s throat.

  And then, nearby, a woman said:
“Leon, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  27

  The pressure of the barrel against Purkhiser’s temple lessened but didn’t disappear. Purkhiser opened one eye—cautious, wary. The woman’s words were flint against the last small measure of steel in his heart, sparking hope. She stood just off the right-hand corner of the stage, gun drawn. Given her suit, her expression, and the way she held her gun, she was law. She looked the type to shoot if called upon to do so. She looked as if she wouldn’t likely miss.

  Leon saw that in her, too, but where Purkhiser found cause for hope, Leonwood found only irritation.

  “Bitch, can’t you see I’m working?” He turned to face her, his automatic still pressed to Purkhiser’s head. His free hand inched toward the .25 at the small of his back.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Thompson said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Leonwood laughed, and drew the .25 on her. Thompson flinched but didn’t fire—she couldn’t risk Leonwood clenching when the bullet hit and killing Purkhiser. “Or what,” he said. “You’ll shoot? I ain’t some fucking moron— I know the only leverage I got is this poor bastard right here, and the fact you know I’ll paint the wall with his brain if you try to pop me. So how ’bout we cut the shit?”

  “Leon,” Thompson said, her voice as measured as she could manage. “You don’t want to do this. No one else has to die today. Let’s talk this through.”

  “Lady, maybe you ain’t been keeping score, but what I done today no talking’s gonna fix.” He glanced toward the entrance of the banquet hall, where armored SWAT slinked like living shadows toward the stage. “Hey, you wanna tell your buddies to pull back? That is, unless you’d prefer being carried outta here.”

  Thompson frowned. “Uh, Garfield—I’m assuming you heard that, right?”

  “Loud and clear,” rang her earpiece. “And I wish I had better news for you, but our snipers haven’t set up yet— they were waiting for the entry team to clear a line.”

  “Right,” she said. Shit. She hoped they had a shot—that they could end this standoff from afar. “Tell our boys to pull back, then.”

  Garfield gave the order. The shadows receded. Leon-wood watched them go, though the barrel of his .25 never faltered—it remained trained on the bridge of Thompson’s nose.

  When the SWAT team had exited the hall, Leonwood nodded almost imperceptibly, and said to Thompson, “The door.” She gave the order, and it swung closed. “Good,” he said. “Now lower your weapon.”

  “You think I’m nuts?”

  “Listen, bitch, the only way you’re walking out of here is if you put down your fucking weapon. Me and Eric here—”

  “Eddie,” Purkhiser muttered weakly, only to squeal under the renewed pressure from Leonwood’s suppressed barrel.

  “As I was saying, me and Eric here are going through that door—which, by the way, you’re gonna have unlocked for me.” He waited a second, staring at the light on the proximity card-reader, which glared red. “Uh, now?”

  “Unlock the stage door,” said Thompson through gritted teeth. The light went green.

  “Good,” said Leonwood. “Now, what’s gonna happen is, you’re gonna put down your gun. If you don’t, I shoot you both. You and me and Eric are going for a little walk. Unless I’m mistaken—and I’m not—past the kitchens, there’s a loading dock. I want a car waiting for us—keys in, engine running. Your people lock us in, I shoot you both. I see any more coppers, I shoot you both. If the car’s fucked with in any way, I shoot you both. You get me?”

  “Yeah,” Thompson said. “I get you.”

  “Good. Now be a doll and put down your fucking gun.”

  Reluctantly, Thompson complied. She didn’t have much choice. Her best play was to keep him moving, keep him talking, get him out into the open so her people could find their shot.

  “Good girl,” he cooed. “Only, you wanna know a secret?”

  “What’s that?”

  Leonwood pulled the trigger on the MP5K. A report like a firecracker, and every muscle in Purkhiser’s prostrate form contracted at once, then slackened. Blood and brain misted across the heavy backstage door.

  As the life left Purkhiser’s body, Leonwood swung his miniature assault rifle toward Thompson, now unarmed. When Leonwood had pulled the trigger, she’d nearly gone for her gun, but his pistol—and his gaze—never left her. And now it was too late.

  “I know full well you ain’t gonna let me walk outta here—and I sure as hell ain’t going back to prison. Which means, like it or not, neither of us are ever gonna leave this room.”

  “Well,” said Hendricks, emerging from the balloons to the left of the stage, “you’re half right.”

  By the time he’d spoken the words, the ceramic knife had already left Hendricks’s hands. Leonwood wheeled toward him, as Hendricks knew he would. Hendricks’s throw was true: the point of the knife caught Leonwood in the Adam’s apple, driving hilt-deep before Leonwood could so much as blink.

  Hendricks had hoped to sever Leonwood’s spine. Hoped, but didn’t count on it. That shot would have been one in a million—slipping between or driving through his vertebrae—and Hendricks wasn’t quite that lucky. Spewing blood as he fell backward from the force of the blow, Leonwood raised both the MP5K and the .25 at Hendricks and squeezed off a few rounds. Hendricks didn’t even flinch. He knew Leonwood’s shots would go wide.

  Thompson didn’t know what to think. She hit the deck, face to floor. As she fell she saw the stranger mount the stage with ease and close the gap between him and Leon-wood in three quick strides.

  When Leonwood slammed into the stage, he dropped his weapons and grasped weakly at the knife jutting from his throat, blood surging between his fingers. Hendricks crouched over him and watched the light in his eyes die.

  “Happy travels, Leon. Maybe we’ll meet again in hell.”

  The whole encounter had taken maybe twenty seconds. Thompson listened, still as death, where she lay. She feared if she moved, she might make herself a target. But when she heard Leonwood’s assailant rise and turn to flee, she scrambled over to her gun, which lay to her left. She snatched it off the floor and rolled, meaning to draw down on the new man—the new threat.

  But by the time she did, the man was gone.

  28

  The service hall was long and bright, with off-white painted cinder-block walls glaring beneath the cheap fluorescent lighting and emergency lights strobing all around. Nice of Leonwood to have the Feds unlock the door for me, Hendricks thought.

  There were no cameras that he could see, but all the doors had card-swipes like the door he’d used to escape into the hallway, the lights on their card-readers red. No doubt the female agent’s doing, Hendricks thought. Trapping him backstage was a pretty lousy thank-you for saving her life.

  Finding the stairwell door among his twenty-odd choices was a breeze: it was the only one marked with an exit sign. Its swipe pad indicated it was locked like all the others. Hendricks dug his fingernails into the seam between the unit’s wall-mounted base and the plastic cover protecting its guts, and pried the cover off. Inside was a tangled mess of leads and wires. Lester probably could’ve hacked the thing in seconds. Hendricks, however, could work at it for an hour with the best tools money can buy, and all he’d likely get for his trouble was electrocuted.

  Lucky for Hendricks, there was more than one way through a door.

  The door and frame were painted steel. Busting through was not an option. The door handle was a heavy-duty lever-style, not unlike the one he’d just come through. Hendricks examined the brushed nickel plate into which the lever was set, hoping to separate it from the door and expose the mechanism within, but it was flush and well-affixed.

  That meant the lever was the weakest link.

  Hendricks looked around for something to break it with—a fire ax or an extinguisher. But the hall was bare, the only fire-suppression tools in sight the sprinklers in the ceiling. He considered trotting the length o
f the hall to see if there was anything of use around the corner, but then they cut the lights, and he knew there wasn’t time. He had seconds, not minutes, to make his move.

  As he was plunged into darkness, the hall’s only illumination the faint, hellish glow of the LEDs reflecting off the glossy walls, Hendricks’s hand went instinctively toward the only weapon left in his possession—his penlight zip gun. Some help this’ll be, he thought. Not that he had any intention of putting any members of the SWAT team in the ground, but the fact was, if he had a gun, he’d have more plays to make. The threat of violence is often more powerful a persuasion than violence itself—and anyway, a well-placed shot square in the center of a flak jacket might provide him just the opening he needed, while leaving its recipient with nothing more than a couple cracked ribs. But just try to threaten violence with a fucking penlight. The very thing that seemed so clever when Lester built it—the fact that no one would ever suspect it was a weapon—was suddenly threatening to get Hendricks killed.

  And then it hit him.

  The zip gun might make for a lousy deterrent in the face of imminent violence, but it—and the hollow-point round inside whose raison d’être was to maximize internal damage—might make for a half-decent key.

  Hendricks pressed the penlight to the door lever and fired. The shot was deafening in the empty hallway. The handle fell from either side of the door with a metallic thunk.

  Hendricks was in the stairwell.

  It was a narrow old affair, designed for evacuations in the case of fire and the like—poured concrete steps rimmed at the edges with rusted metal, the metal handrail rusted red as well. The air inside the stairwell was kiln-hot and smelled of oxidation.

  One landing down, there was an air vent, its cover held fast by two rusted screws—top left and bottom right. The other two holes sat empty, the screws either long gone or never installed in the first place. Hendricks yanked the cover off the vent and tossed it onto the center of the landing. He disturbed the dust and rat shit just inside the vent with both hands and tossed his cowboy hat as far into the ductwork as he could. Then he turned around and headed up the stairs—ignoring the down-arrowed exit signs and their false promise of daylight, of liberation.