Pay Dirt (Lost Falls Book 2)

by Chris Underwood

  “If you know what’s good for you,” the woman snapped, “you’ll keep your heathen mouth shut.”

  “He’ll drown if you keep trying to give him water,” Early said. “He can’t protect his airway.”

  “This is your fault. I should put a hole in your throat and see how well you breathe.”

  “You won’t do that.”

  There was a click as the woman unsnapped the fastener on her holster. Her fingers wrapped around the pistol grip. My own hand tightened around my revolver.

  “Won’t I?” she said.

  “No, you won’t.” Early sounded weary, like he’d had this conversation a dozen times already. “Any hurt you inflict on me will be experienced threefold by your friend over there. You know that. You’ve seen it.”

  Isidora touched my shoulder and shot me a questioning glance. She could hear them talking, but from where she was crouched behind me she couldn’t see what was happening. I motioned for her to wait here and watch our backs. Then I turned and ducked through the doorway.

  The hook-nosed woman was turned away from me, so she didn’t notice as I crept into the room and crouched down behind a tall set of glass shelves. Quietly, I took my truncheon in hand and edged closer to them.

  “He’s already unconscious,” she said to Early. “Maybe he won’t notice if he feels a little more pain.” She moved her hand away from her pistol and instead drew a black-handled knife from beneath her jacket. Steel scraped against leather. “Shall we find out, heathen?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” I said.

  At the sound of my voice, the woman whirled around. Her eyes grew wide.

  I took mercy on her. I didn’t put all my weight into the blow when I slammed the pommel of my truncheon into her skull. She stood for a moment, dazed eyes staring through me. I shoved her to the ground, disarmed her, and left her bleeding beside her sick friend.

  Isidora came through the doorway and glanced at the downed woman.

  “So much for not killing anyone.”

  “She’s not dead,” I said.

  “Not yet, maybe.” She went back to keeping watch. “Give it a while.”

  I didn’t much care. I had more important things to worry about.

  Early sat straight-backed in the chair, his head moving beneath the bag. “Ozzy? Is that you?”

  I ripped the bag off his head. He blinked and squinted up at me, a smile forming behind his beard.

  They’d got a couple of good licks on him. His right cheek was covered with a blotchy purple bruise that stretched up to his eye. There was dried blood matted in his beard. But it looked like they’d only hit him once or twice before they’d stopped.

  “Next time you plan on doing something stupid,” I said, “leave a goddamn note to tell me where you’re going, huh?”

  “You sound like my mother. God rest her soul,” he added.

  “If I was your mother I’d whoop your bony ass for being so stupid. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  Early’s ankles were fixed to the chair legs with duct tape. I grabbed the bowie knife I’d taken from the hook-nosed woman and cut the old man’s legs free. His wrists were a different matter. They were handcuffed to the chair. And not cheap cuffs from an adult store, either. These were the real deal. Muttering to myself, I got out my lock picks and crouched down beside Early.

  Isidora glanced back into the room. “Who the hell is that? Why are you wasting time?”

  “This is why I’m here,” I said without looking up. I wiggled my pick in the handcuff lock. “I’m getting him out of here.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the old man said. “I’m Early. And you must be the witch who attacked Ozzy.”

  Isidora’s eyes narrowed. “Another cunning man, I suppose. Fantastic. Where’s the guy who owns the place? Where’s Stuckey?”

  “I don’t know,” Early said. “I heard some of them talking. I think they moved him.”

  “Moved him where?” Isidora demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  The witch growled with frustration. With a snarl, she stomped past us, grabbed the hook-nosed woman by the collar, and shook her. “Where’s Stuckey? Where’s Ursula?” The woman just groaned. Isidora slapped her across the face. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  The woman’s head rolled back, her mouth slack-jawed. The witch shoved her back down with a grunt.

  “This cuff is rusted all to hell,” I muttered as I tried to wiggle the lock free. “Piece of shit.” I looked up at Early. “Who are these assholes? Are they witch-finders?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not in the way we know them, anyway.”

  “Then who are they?”

  “Fanatics. Zealots. I heard the boss talking. He thinks he’s got a line to God. He was talking about gates, and invasions, and cleansing the world.”

  “Let me guess. He wants to cleanse the world of—”

  “Us.” Early nodded. “Strangers. By the sound of it, he’s been studying the witch-finders’ playbooks. Mixing that up with some Charles Manson nonsense. They’re crazy. But they’re dangerous. And I think they’re looking for something.”

  I glanced at Isidora. “Lot of folks looking for something these days. And I got a feeling they’re all looking in the same place.”

  Static crackled from the hook-nosed woman’s pocket. “Sister, we found Marks and Larsen,” a voice hissed through the radio. “They’ve been attacked. Report in.”

  “Cunning man,” Isidora said warningly. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I know, I know.” I worked the pick in the handcuff lock. “I’m nearly…there!”

  The cuff popped open. Groaning softly, Early stretched his shoulders. The cuff bracelet still dangled from his right wrist, but we could deal with that later.

  “Up you get, old man.” I grabbed Early by the elbow. “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll dance a jig if you get me out of here.”

  “That’s the spirit. Here, hold this.” I grabbed the pistol I’d taken from the hook-nosed woman and thrust it into Early’s hands. His lips curled with distaste, but he took the weapon anyway.

  “Sister,” the radio crackled again. “Report!”

  I pulled Early toward the doorway that led back out to the main section of the museum. Isidora hurried ahead of us. Her rat skittered nervously about its cage. The witch was spitting mad. She grumbled to herself as we moved. I tuned her out.

  “How many are left?” Early asked.

  “Two are down outside. The guard on the roof and some blond guy.” I jerked my thumb toward the hook-nosed lady and the feverish man wrapped up in his sleeping bag. “And those two shouldn’t be bothering us. That just leaves Baldy and some other lady.”

  “What about the man with the scars?”

  “Who?”

  The crack of a gunshot split the silence of the museum. Isidora ducked back through the doorway as a bullet tore wooden splinters from the frame. She hissed with pain as a cut opened up on her cheek.

  “Top balcony,” she barked, slapping a hand to her face. “We missed one.”

  Two more gunshots rang out, punching holes into the floor of the doorway. I shoved Early back behind me and drew my own revolver. Sidling up to the doorway, I peeked out.

  At the top of the stairs that led to the upper balcony of the museum I spotted a dark shape braced against the banister. I caught a glimpse of a gap-toothed snarl and a badly scarred face before he fired again. The shot zipped overhead and I threw myself back into cover.

  “Can’t get a shot,” I said.

  Isidora shoved me out of the way. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The witch fished a small bottle out of her pocket. It was filled with a viscous amber-colored liquid. When she unscrewed the top, I caught a whiff of something that smelled a little like formaldehyde.

  Isidora dragged her thumb along the cut on her cheek and smeared blood around the rim of the bottle. As she brought it to her lips and tilted the bottle bac
k, I saw something floating in the amber liquid. It looked almost like a dead beetle.

  With a few gulps, she drained the bottle. A moment passed. Then the empty bottle slipped from her fingers and she doubled over, groaning.

  Instinctively, I reached for her, but Early grabbed my arm and pulled me back a couple of steps.

  Isidora clutched at her stomach, her eyes screwed up tight. Her groaning grew louder. And then I noticed there were other sounds coming out of her throat as well. Humming, buzzing sounds.

  The witch’s eyes snapped open and she straightened. Bracing herself against the doorway, she opened her mouth.

  A black cloud of buzzing, angry insects spilled forth from her throat. The sound of a thousand chainsaws filled my ears. With a snarl from Isidora, the swarm formed up and swept through the doorway.

  Over the endless buzzing I heard a shout of panic. The man on the balcony began to fire wildly. The buzzing grew angrier. The man began to scream.

  “Quickly,” Isidora panted. “Move!”

  She was leaning heavily against the door frame, exhaustion etched into her face. Amber liquid stained her lips. She tried to push herself off the wall and nearly fell.

  I grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her through the doorway. She swore and tried to shake me off, but the spell had left her weak. I held on tight and kept moving, trusting Early to follow.

  I glanced up at the balcony. Amid the swirling cloud of insects I spotted the scarred man flailing about, trying to get them off. They were crawling across his face, covering his eyes, invading his nostrils. It was like the tide of rats all over again. I wasn’t a fan of this witch’s brand of magic.

  We made for the front door of the museum. Going out the front would give us less cover, but at least we’d be slightly less likely to run into Baldy and shotgun lady. I shoved Isidora into cover behind a display case and started fiddling with the locks on the front door.

  From the back of the museum I heard the rattling of a door on its hinges. A moment later came a screech of pain.

  “They found your little surprise, cunning man,” Isidora said.

  “I know.” I tugged on the deadbolt and tried to pull the door open, only to spot a second deadbolt at the base of the door. Behind us, I heard banging as someone tried to kick open the back door.

  “We’re out of time,” the witch said.

  “I know!”

  I snapped back the second deadbolt and threw open the door. At the same time I heard a splintering crash from behind us. Boots stomped against the hardwood floor.

  “Go!” I yelled to Early. I grabbed Isidora again and pulled her toward the front door.

  As we moved, I felt her hand slip into one of my pockets. She pulled out a vial, glanced at it, and turned back toward our pursuers.

  “No, wait,” I said. “That’s—”

  She flung the vial. It crashed against a display case holding a mannequin dressed up in old-timey miner’s clothing.

  An inferno of bright green witch’s fire blossomed out of the shattered vial, splashing across the floor and walls. Even from across the room I could feel the heat of it wash over me.

  Shotgun lady shouted. Through the dancing flames I could see her falling back, one arm up to shield her face from the heat. Some of the witch’s fire had splashed up onto the stairs in the middle of the room, making things even worse for the scar-faced man being harassed by a swarm of magic insects.

  Through the fire, though, I spotted another face. The bald man. His milky eyes met mine, and he gave me an amused smile.

  I turned and hauled Isidora through the open door. Early was a couple of steps ahead of us. He was limping a little. He wouldn’t get far on foot. But we didn’t have any other choice. We dashed across the veranda and out to the small parking lot.

  An engine roared. A black SUV, the twin of the one parked behind the museum, came tearing off the road and into the parking lot ahead of us. Even at a glance I could see that it was fully loaded—four more mean looking folks packed into the vehicle. As it skidded to a stop, the front passenger leaned out the window and aimed a rifle at us.

  I looked back into the museum, back at our only escape route. Green flames licked at the museum’s interior, spreading fast. Smoke was beginning to cloud the windows and billow out the front door.

  We were trapped. But that wasn’t what made my blood run cold.

  The bald man was walking toward us. Fire lapped at him, surrounded him. But it didn’t touch him. His clothes remained unsinged, his skin unblistered. His right hand hovered over his heart, and as he strolled through the heat he muttered something I couldn’t hear.

  I looked back at the SUV in front of us. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The vehicle’s occupants were opening their doors, brandishing their weapons.

  Isidora bared her teeth, but I knew she had no more energy left to spend. Early wasn’t looking much better. I felt the grip of my revolver in my hand. I felt the weight of vials and talismans in my pockets. All useless.

  I couldn’t take all of them. Not here, not in the open. We’d be cut down before I could move.

  Early knew it too. “I’m sorry, Ozzy,” he said. “This is my fault.”

  I opened my mouth to respond. But my words were drowned out by the scream of another engine being pushed to its limit.

  It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. My van—my big, ugly, piece of shit van—came screeching down the road. It bounced into the air as it jumped a curb, then came crashing back down into the parking lot, bouncing on its suspension. Behind the wheel, Lilian’s mouth hung open in a silent shout.

  I grabbed Early and body-slammed Isidora to the concrete just as the van flew past us. For a moment there was a strange sense of stillness in the air. Silence, almost. I braced for what I knew was coming.

  The van smashed into the side of the SUV, T-boning it. I felt the collision deep in my chest. There was a screeching of tires and a squealing of tortured metal. The SUV skidded sideways for several feet, the side of it buckled and twisted. Through the cracked windows I saw its occupants being shaken about.

  The two vehicles came to a stop in a cloud of smoke. The van’s engine cut out. The whole front end was in a bad way. With relief I saw Lilian’s head lift up from the steering wheel. She looked out at me, dazed, then blinked a few times and shook her head. She reached for the ignition, and I heard the engine struggling to start again.

  “Up,” I muttered, standing and pulling Early with me. He’d dropped the gun I’d given him. “Come on, up. We have to go. Witch!”

  Isidora groaned and looked up at me. I jerked my head at her.

  “Into the van. Let’s go!”

  I didn’t wait to see if she’d heard. I staggered over to the van, pulling Early along. Thankfully, the main body of the van didn’t look too badly buckled. The back door only squealed a little as I slid it open.

  I threw Early bodily into the van. Lilian turned the engine over once more and it sputtered to life.

  The folks in the SUV were recovering. They threw open the doors on the undamaged side and started to clamber out. All were bloodied, but only one looked in really bad condition.

  I glanced back. Isidora was stumbling toward me, her rat cage swinging from an outstretched arm. She tossed it, and both the cage and the squealing rat inside went tumbling into the back of the van.

  Lilian threw the van into reverse. There was a crunching of metal, then the two vehicles separated themselves. The van backed up a few feet.

  “Ozzy!” Early yelled, gesturing to me through the open back door.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement coming around the side of the museum. Shotgun lady appeared at the corner of the building, her hair and clothing singed by witch’s fire. She raised her gun.

  I didn’t even have time to shout before the shotgun boomed. Pellets punched into the concrete beside me. Isidora cried out and went down on her hands and knees. Her trouser leg was torn. Blood soaked the fabric.


  Shotgun lady lined up another shot. Isidora was a sitting duck. She looked up at me, her jaw set with the pain.

  I threw myself at her as the shotgun’s second barrel boomed. My weight flattened Isidora against the ground and we rolled across the concrete together as the shotgun blast whipped past us.

  Without rising from the ground I brought my revolver around. I hadn’t even centered shotgun lady in my sights before I started squeezing off shots. She fell back behind the corner of the museum.

  The van’s engine revved. I could hear Early shouting at Lilian, telling her to reverse and bring the van closer to us.

  I glanced back toward the crumpled SUV. Its occupants were grabbing their weapons and turning back toward us. I pushed myself to my knees and grabbed Isidora by the scruff of the neck. As Lilian brought the van squealing to a stop a few feet away, I shoved Isidora ahead of me, toward the back door. She cried out and stumbled as her wounded leg took her weight, but Early grabbed her by the arm and started to haul her in.

  With a groan, I pushed myself to my feet. I’d done something bad to my leg when I dived on top of Isidora. Or maybe I’d been shot as well. I didn’t know. I didn’t have time to check.

  As I staggered for the van I turned my revolver toward the armed people clambering out of the SUV and fired a couple of shots over their heads to keep them occupied.

  “Ozzy!” Early’s voice reached me over the sound of gunshots and the ringing in my ears. “Behind you!”

  I spun back toward the museum’s entrance and found myself face-to-face with the bald man. I whipped my gun toward him.

  He caught my gun hand in his palm and closed his fingers around mine. His skin was as hot as witch’s fire.

  It was agony. I could feel my flesh burning in his grip. I tried not to scream. That lasted all of half a second.

  With unnatural strength, he pushed my hand away from him, pointing the gun into the air and twisting my wrist in a direction it wasn’t meant to twist. I tried to throw a punch with my other hand, but the bald man just wrenched my gun hand into an even more unnatural position and I fell to my knees.

  Gritting my teeth against the burning in my hand, I looked around. I saw the occupants of the SUV forming up, weapons raised. I saw Early pulling Isidora into the back of the van, leaving a smear of her blood against the paintwork. And I saw Lilian’s horrified face as she sat in the driver’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold.