by Oisin McGann
Move-Easy could suffer a bad loss of face over this disastrous cock-up, if anybody outside the Void finds out about it. He’s rigid with barely suppressed fury. The look on his UV-orange face could crack concrete. It’s directed at the Turk, who stands a head taller than the boss but is cowering like a child. The two of them are enveloped in a blue-grey cloud of smoke from the hot dog–sized cigar Easy is gripping between his teeth. From the way the muscles are standing out on his jaw, I’m surprised he hasn’t bitten right through the thing. I’m standing behind and to the side of the Turk, trying not to cough in the fumes. Manikin and FX are beside me.
I got a text from Nimmo on the way back here. It just said: “OK.” I’m glad one of us is. I hope he made sure there was nothing on that rifle that could lead back to him. Easy’s dead set on finding the “hit man” who fouled up the operation. For the moment though, he’s concentrating on the people he can get hold of.
“Hold out your hand,” Easy says to the ogre in front of him.
I have a surreal moment when I think he’s going to smack the Turk’s hand with a ruler, like an old-fashioned school principal. Instead, he grips the spade-like mitt in one of his own hands, and with the other, takes the cigar from between his teeth. Move-Easy looks up into the Turk’s eyes as he presses the burning tip of the cigar down on the palm of the giant’s hand. The pain must be torturous, but the Turk doesn’t flinch. Most people would scream, but he only winces and draws in a long breath. I can smell the burning skin from where I’m standing, but he’s got off lightly, and he knows it.
Move-Easy takes his time. By my count, twenty seconds pass before he lifts the cigar, puts it back in his mouth and releases the Turk’s hand. The Turk tucks his injured palm into his armpit, but he doesn’t move—he must wait to be dismissed.
“’Ave that seen to immediately,” Easy grunts. “Don’t want it gettin’ infected.”
He turns to the rest of us. His cigar is still lit, and he rolls it to the corner of his mouth, clenching his teeth around it and sucking the pungent smoke down his throat. FX has unconsciously stuck his hands behind his back. Mani’s jammed hers into her jeans pockets.
“As for you lot,” he rasps, smoke issuing from between his lips as he talks, like some stunted orange dragon, “none of you has come out of this smellin’ of roses, but you did your bits well enough, I suppose—kept your ’eads an’ that. Can’t say I’ll be trustin’ you with a piece of real action again any time soon, though. The whole time you were trackin’ Jonny, someone else was too and you never sussed it out. Seems this whole job was a bit out o’ your league. Thought you was ready to be more than just rat-runners … but maybe I was wrong.”
The orange gangster takes another long drag on his cigar, holds it in for a moment and then gives a hoarse, smoky sigh. He gestures to one of the trolls standing off to one side: “Bring that stuff up; let’s see what this mad scientist of ours has been up to then.”
He’s facing the wide-screen television that takes up part of one wall, and a scattering of windows open up on the screen. I catch a glimpse of schematics for some kind of bio-tech implant, high-magnification photos of a piece of unidentifiable nano-tech. My interest is sparked by a document with the heading: “Animal Test Results—Initial Findings.” Move-Easy sees me looking.
“Not for your eyes, my Little Brain,” he croaks. “At least, not yet. A bit out o’ your league.” He gazes at us for a few seconds with those cold lizard eyes. “You can go, all o’ you.”
So we do.
The End.
This is a prequel novella. Read the full-length novel, Rat Runners,
from Open Road Integrated Media in January 2015.
Available in paperback and ebook.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Oisín McGann
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4976-7714-2
Published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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