Machine's Work: A Hyper-Violent Crime Thriller (Assassination City Book 1)
Page 38
“Neither of us is leaving,” Machine says as he lifts the grenade to eye level, distracting Moses for the briefest of seconds. At the same time, Machine eases the razor open with his thumb. The grenade is too easy a way for Moses to die. Machine wants to use the razor. To see the blood and hear his father scream. His father had spent hundreds of hours teaching him to use the blade; it was time Machine put it to good use. It’s not much against a shotgun, but Machine has bucked tougher odds before.
“Don't be a fool,” Moses says, eyes shuttling between the open door and the grenade. He stands suddenly and takes a step back. For just a moment the twelve-gauge's barrel rests on the table, angled down, no longer aimed directly at Machine. Machine sees the opening and acts before he consciously wills it. He lunges across the table at Moses, the razor sweeping up in his hand.
Machine hits the middle of the table on his knees and slides across the veneer. The razor's honed edge catches the light, a gleaming arc headed for his father's throat. But Moses is an old pro. He falls away ungracefully, trying to outdistance his son, still lifting the shotgun, trying to bring its barrel to bear. But his chair gets in his way. Machine is almost on top of him when Moses instinctively pulls the trigger.
The shotgun’s roar is huge. A flash of fire and a thousand hot needles shred Machine's thigh, but the razor’s arc never alters. Moses stumbles and tries to turn, but he doesn’t have a chance. The razor sinks deeply into his neck at the point where it joins his shoulder. Blood geysers from the wound and Moses screams as he reels away from the table. He drops the shotgun, clamps a hand over the wound and staggers to the door, blood running in rivulets down his overcoat. Blood leaks through his fingers as he staggers onto the catwalk, his eyes blasted wide in disbelief. Moses has killed hundreds of people, but he had never given a thought to his own end, it was always the other guy left bleeding into the pavement.
Machine is on the floor, the razor still in his hand. He grabs a table leg and tries to rise, but his wounded leg gives way and he’s back on the floor again, still clutching the grenade and the razor. His leg is on fire, a mangled mess of ruined flesh. He rolls over, flopping around in a spreading pool of his own blood, ditches the razor and fumbles for the Colt, but the loss of blood and the accumulation of injuries are taking their final toll. His hands move in slow motion while his heart beats at triple time, roaring in his head like a subway train. He’s losing blood as quickly as Moses.
Still gripping his neck, Moses bumps the railing and screams again, not from the pain or fear, but from raw rage. The sound echoes off the walls of the warehouse as his blood drips through the steel mesh to the floor below. Moses turns sharply back toward the room and the two men's eyes lock. Moses' light up like Christmas as he reaches under his overcoat with his right hand, still covering the wound on his neck with his left. His movements are as slow as Machine’s, plodding, clumsy. He pulls a silenced Smith & Wesson 9mm from a shoulder rig, racks the slide against his thigh to chamber a round, and takes a deliberate step toward his son. The pistol rises in his shaky hand.
Machine fumbles the Colt from under his jacket, but it falls through his fingers to the carpet.
Moses’ left hand leaves the razor wound to support the Smith. Blood bubbles from his neck at an impossible rate. The carpet and catwalk shine with it. He stops in the doorway and takes careful aim. He tries to say something through gritted teeth, but it won't come out. He stops trying and takes another shuddering step forward, the Smith locked on Machine’s forehead. The explosion of a gunshot pounds Machine's ears.
It’s a shotgun, there’s no doubt. Moses' body jackknifes in the wrong direction. His chest bulges, his coat rips open, and blood flies from his mouth as his lungs pop like balloons. He staggers, but he doesn’t go down. He looks down disbelievingly at his mangled torso, at the bloody tatters, then his eyes come back up to meet Machine’s.
Moses snarls. He doesn't even bother to return fire to his rear. He raises the Smith again.
Another roaring blast and a load of buckshot punches through Moses’ left side, lifting him up on tiptoe. His 9mm hits the floor and he falls to his knees then down onto his face. But he isn’t done. Like a dying snake, he continues to try to strike. He flops over, blood frothing from his lips, and produces his straight razor. He tries to sit up, tries to rise, but he’s lost too much blood. With a single groan, he falls back and settles into the carpet, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, already glazing over. The razor slips from his fingers.
Machine watches his father die, knowing he will soon be joining Moses in Hell. He tries to sit up, but decides it's too much effort.
A shadow appears in the doorway and Kyokuto steps into the light, gripping a smoking Jackhammer twelve-gauge. Adhesive clings to his face and clothes. A gray strip encircles his right arm. His hands and face are red and raw, but he's smiling. Until he sees the raw meat that used to be Machine's thigh.
“It's over,” Machine says as his friend goes down on one knee beside him.
Kyokuto takes the live grenade from Machine's fingers, reaches into the chest-pack, retrieves the pin and slides it back into its slot. He places the grenade on the floor then cuts Machine's slacks away from the shotgun wound with a pocket knife.
“Oh, Christ,” Kyokuto whispers, stomach rolling. Moses had used flechette rounds in the gauge. Each round contains dozens of tiny steel darts made of wire. They bend and twist on impact, spiraling deep into the flesh.
Kyokuto reaches into the chest-pack again and hauls out a wad of bandages and compresses. There isn't nearly enough for such a severe wound. He piles them on, strips his jacket, rips off one of the sleeves, and ties it around the blood-soaked cotton.
“He's dead,” Machine says.
“I know,” Kyokuto responds as he lifts his friend under the shoulders. “Just be quiet. I'm going to get you to Peterson.”
Machine fades.
Kyokuto is as gentle as possible dragging his friend down the steps and into the back seat of the Lincoln. Tears sting his eyes. He knows Machine isn't going to make it, but he won't give up on him. Machine is the only friend Kyokuto has left.
With the young killer sprawled unconscious in the back seat, Kyokuto heads for the crack-houses in the Bottoms.
52
Machine awakens to the rumble of tires on asphalt and the green glow of dash lights. Darkness prevails beyond the Lincoln's tinted windows, broken only by stars and a sliver of moon.
Machine knows immediately he is far from the city. He sits up and pain shoots up his thigh and shin. He bites his lip to stifle a groan, leans against the door and looks to the front seat.
Kyokuto, hearing the motion, glances in the rearview mirror. “You're going to live,” he says with a smile, “according to Doc Peterson, the base-head.” He turns his eyes back to the road.
Machine runs his hands over the fresh bandages around his thigh, chest, and arm, then settles back and looks out the windshield, down the old turnpike. A rusted green sign flashes by overhead. ALBANY 200 MILES.
“Where are you going?”
“Albany,” Kyokuto says, eyes on the rearview mirror. “My mother has people there.”
“Turn around.”
Kyokuto is confused. “What for? Nothing but cops and bodies back there. You've made all the papers.”
“There's still work to do in Low Town,” Machine replies. Colonel Jones and the Militia have two cylinders of nerve gas. Machine won't let them take over the city. He owes Wino and Tic-Tac's memory that much.
“Shit,” Kyokuto mutters under his breath. He says nothing else. He takes the next exit, makes a u-turn, and starts the long drive back to Low Town.
Machine closes his eyes, settles back in the seat and thinks of his mother and Marie Kukov as sleeps drags at him. His love for them draws his lungs tight and makes his heart ache. He’s lost them both now. Marie hated her father, but even if she could forgive Machine for killing Vlad, she could never forget. With shame, but also some relief, Machine realizes tha
t he can never be what Marie and his mother would have wanted. He cannot put aside revenge. It's all he knows.
“No women, no kids,” he whispers to himself as he fades.
Thechopper is coming…
From the Author:
If you enjoyed Machine’s Work, please take a moment to follow the link below and review it at Amazon.com. And thanks for reading!
Sincerely,
Jack Cüatt
http://www.amazon.com/Machines-Work-Jack-Cuatt-ebook/dp/B00U1QFYWM/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1424987582&sr=1-1