Flood

by Andrew Vachss

  The seconds slipped by as the Cobra eyed me. It was like the staring contests young bloods would get into on the yard when I was in prison—the kind of game you can’t win. If you drop your eyes, the other con thinks you’re weak—and a weak man in prison doesn’t stay a man for long. If you lock eyes for real, you’ve got to fight. And if you have to fight, you have to kill. Once you’re on that slide, you can have a decent life for yourself inside the walls . . . but you can never get out. I had to end this part fast.

  “You know me?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said softly, “I just wanted to see . . .”

  “See what, pal? You did this before, right?”

  “Yeah . . . right,” but his eyes never shifted and he didn’t move.

  “All right, let’s get rolling. I got some contracts for you to look over and we got a place for you to stay with the other guys until we move out.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “It’s downtown, near the docks. Come on, pal. I don’t want to stand in this goddamned stairwell all night, okay?”

  And I walked past him like there was nothing for him to do but follow me, deliberately leaving my back exposed to anything he wanted to do—but finally getting myself out of the line of fire between him and Max.

  I heard the sharp intake of breath through his nose as I went past. He wasn’t relaxed—wasn’t going for it yet. I kept walking, talking over my shoulder about the “operation” like he was right next to me. When I got to the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I turned around and looked back. The Cobra had moved down a few steps, but he wasn’t coming along—just staring down at me.

  I turned to look up at him, now holding the attache case in one hand while the other was comforted by the feel of the revolver in my coat pocket. With twenty feet between us the odds had changed: between my pistol at his front and Max the Silent at his back, he was deader than disco if he moved wrong.

  The Cobra seemed to realize he’d lost the edge, and he started toward me. I shrugged my shoulders elaborately, calling up to him:

  “Hey, pal, you in or you out? I got a rendezvous at oh-two-hundred over in Jersey and two other men to pick up. What’s your problem?”

  “Let’s go,” he said, flashing his snake’s grin for the first time, and staring down toward me.

  I turned and went down the next flight, like I expected him to catch up. I was part-way down when I heard movement behind me—he was coming. The muscles in the back of my neck tightened as I concentrated on the sounds. An amateur would try to rush up behind me and knock me down the stairs, but the Cobra would want to get close and do it right.

  Now he loomed up silently on my right side, lightly touched my arm. “Can’t be too careful, right?” he hissed, and fell into step with me. I could only see his right hand—the left was somewhere behind me. The Cobra was back in control, he thought.

  One more flight to go. I still couldn’t see his left hand. When he spoke he turned to look at me and his body got closer—it wasn’t an accident.

  “How long’s this operation going to run?”

  “Hey, you know how it works, it runs until it’s over. You’re in for the duration, right? You draw a month’s pay up front in cash, the rest goes to wherever you want it sent.”

  “Yeah, right . . .” It was like I’d thought: all he knew about mercenary work was what he’d read in magazines.

  We got to the lobby together, walking past the Prof, who tried another “Shine, suh?” which got no response from me. The Cobra, in character, said, “Shine this, nigger,” hawking and directing a blob in the Prof’s general direction. The Prof ducked his face behind the shoeshine box, and the Cobra smiled his smile more brightly now that he figured he was among friends. But when he glanced over at me and I kept my face deadpan he seemed to realize that he’d made a mistake: real men didn’t spit at niggers, they blew them away. He shifted his shoulders and I knew what was on his mind. “Forget it,” I told him, “we’ve got better things to do.”

  He nodded and we went out the door into the street, about a block from where the Plymouth sat waiting dark and quiet, only a whisper of smoke from its exhaust. Max was already there.

  Another block to go. I had to keep him off balance, stop him from thinking.

  “Got your passport with you?”

  He tapped his breast pocket, saying nothing. We were at the Plymouth—I walked over and opened the back door, climbing in myself so that it wouldn’t remind him of the last time he got busted. But he stayed quiet, slid in next to me like he was supposed to, and pulled the door closed.

  It was dark in the car. Max didn’t turn around—with the black watch-cap over his skull and the canvas gloves on his hands he looked like anybody else.

  “What’s with him?” the Cobra wanted to know. “I thought you’d be alone.”

  “I do liaison work, friend—I don’t drive the cars, okay?”

  The Cobra moved slightly away from me and reached his left hand across his body to roll down the window on his side.

  “Don’t,” I told him. “From this point on the mission’s rolling. We’re in a gray sector here and we don’t need any attention, right?” The Cobra nodded, looking pleased, glad finally to be among true professionals like himself. The Plymouth rolled away from the curb with its catch.

  The Cobra leaned back and we both lit cigarettes. I kept talking to calm him, but there was no place for him to go now—the back doors couldn’t be opened from the inside.

  “You ever work before?”

  “I did some jobs, local jobs—not in Africa, though.”

  “How’d you know this was an African operation?” I said, sounding surprised.

  “I know these things. I just read between the lines,” he said, grinning his winning snake’s grin.

  “You do combat or penetration jobs?”

  “Either one, man. Either one.”

  “You got your choice with this operation.”

  “You got a lot of guys signed up already?”

  “We got ten men besides you already on-board here in New York, another fifteen in Houston. I understand our people on the Coast are doing real well too. You got any particular specialty? They pay extra for that, you know the scene.”

  “Interrogation,” said the Cobra. No smile this time.

  I nodded, then told him, “You’ll have to bunk with us for a few days until we’re ready to shove off. The accommodations are pretty good, we got food, TV, access to phones. We even bring in a whore or two every couple of nights.”

  “I get my own,” he said quickly.

  “Yeah, well, once you’re in we can’t have people just walking around the streets, right? Security. We bring in what the guys want.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  I figured he was thinking he didn’t know me well enough to ask me to bring him a kid for him to practice his specialty on.

  55

  THE WAREHOUSE LOOMED in sight. Max rolled in the front, slipped out from behind the wheel, and went back to close the door, all in one continuous motion. I knew he’d be hitting the switch to tell Flood the cargo had arrived.

  Max opened the door on my side, I slid out, he walked around the back of the Plymouth, and opened the Cobra’s door. Wilson climbed out, stretched himself, yawned. He looked at Max, said, “He’s a zip . . .” in a surprised voice. I shrugged my shoulders in a what-can-you-do? gesture and pointed to the stairs. The Cobra started to climb, seemed to hesitate when he heard something, then realized it was just a radio. Hearing Hank Williams sing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” seemed to add a spring to his step. As he completed the first flight I slipped past him to show him the way to the second, where Flood would be waiting, leaving Max behind him. The Cobra was in a box, but not the box where he belonged—not yet.

  I got to the door of Max’s temple and we couldn’t hear the music anymore. I pushed aside the bamboo so the Cobra would precede me, and we all went inside—

  And there stood Flood in the black ro
bes, in a room lit only by the flickering candles on the altar.

  “What the fuck is . . . ?” He spun around to face me. He saw the double-barreled sawed-off leveled at his chest, and stopped. He glanced at Max and saw the warrior, now wearing the same black robes as Flood.

  “Give me the passport,” I said, “and if your hands touch anything else you’re chopped meat.”

  The Cobra reached slowly for his breast pocket, saying “Hey, look . . . man, look. I got it. It’s here. What’s going on . . . ?”

  He placed the passport gently on my open palm. Flood stood watching—still as stone. I held the passport in one hand, slid my thumb inside and flipped it open to the first page. There was his picture—and MARTIN HOWARD WILSON in government lettering. A valid passport, just like he promised. I nodded to Flood and Max.

  The Cobra stood with his hands at his sides, waiting to see if he’d passed the test. I prodded him forward with the scattergun until he was close enough to see the little red table. Close enough to see the metal spike with the dark wood handle wrapped in red silk. Close enough to see the picture of Sadie and Flower—to see his own photograph. Then he knew.

  Max and I stepped back, away from him. I spoke to him in a calm voice—no more mystery. “Look, pal. It’s a job, you understand. This lady has a beef with you and she hired us to bring you here. Now it’s between you and her. We’re out of it. Only you don’t leave until it’s settled. That’s it.”

  The Cobra stood there, staring straight ahead—his mouth was open, his breathing was bad. Then Flood spoke up, her voice thin and clear, without a tremor. “Martin Howard Wilson”—like a judge handing down a sentence—“you killed that child. Flower. Her people are dead. I am of the child’s blood and I want yours in payment—”

  “What is this shit—”

  “Shut up,” I told him, moving the shotgun for emphasis.

  Flood went on as if nobody had spoken. “I will fight you. Now. In this room. On this ground. We fight to the death. Only one of us leaves this room. If you defeat me, you will be free to go.”

  The Cobra looked at me. I nodded. “That’s the deal, pal. One of you leaves the room.”

  “I beat this cunt and I leave? No problems?”

  “No problems,” I said, and stepped back.

  56

  FLOOD BOWED TO Max, bowed to me, and turned to bow to the altar she had made. The Cobra unbuttoned his fatigue jacket with one hand, slowly, so as not to provoke me into blowing him away. He was wearing only a black T-shirt under the jacket, the butt of a small automatic protruded above his belt.

  “Your choice,” I said, stepping slightly to my left. Max moved out of the line of fire.

  The Cobra used only his thumb and index finger to pull it out—a nasty little .25-caliber Beretta, more than enough to do the job at close range. He held it by the butt and gently tossed it in my direction. It bounced off my thigh—my eyes never left him.

  Still watching me, he knelt and unlaced his combat boots, took off his socks, put them on the floor. A look of profound disgust flashed across Max’s face.

  I walked toward the Cobra: the scattergun backed him away until I was between him and the boots. A glance showed what I expected—a sheath stitched up one side of the boot, with the knife handle sticking out the top. I kicked the boots away and stepped back.

  He looked over at me, giving it one last try. “Can I talk to you?”

  I shook my head. He looked at Max’s face, saw his future, and turned to face his past.

  Max and I faded back against the walls, leaving the Cobra and Flood alone on the deck. Flood shrugged her shoulders, causing the lovely silk robe to fall to the floor behind her. She faced the Cobra wearing a black jersey top with accordion folds in the shoulders over flowing white silk pants. Around her waist was a white sash, tied so that its tails revealed two black tips.

  Flood flicked her foot and the discarded robe flew off the deck and came to rest against the altar. She spread her arms wide to the Cobra—and bounced toward him on the balls of her feet.

  The Cobra ran to meet her, shifting his upper body so it was parallel to the ground and firing a sharp roundhouse kick off his right foot. Flood flowed under the kick without changing her position, and he whipped the left foot back to the ground and lashed out with the right—Flood wasn’t there.

  I looked over at Max—the Cobra was quicker than I thought he’d be, and he was fighting her correctly. An amateur would try and use his greater upper-body strength against a woman, but his longer legs gave him more power with less risk. Someone had trained him well—his concentration on Flood was total. Max and I weren’t in the room for him anymore.

  Flood still hadn’t moved. The Cobra faked a chop with his left hand, spun into a tightly controlled back-kick, and used the forward momentum to fire three quick chopping strikes in one burst. The first two missed—Flood took the last one on her elbow, spun into it, and twisted her hips to launch an elbow at his exposed face. The Cobra leaned back, his lips parting as her arm shot by, but Flood kept spinning, aiming an eye-dart that just missed, raking the side of his face. First blood. The Cobra rolled to the floor and lashed up at her ankles with his heel, supporting himself with his palms.

  Flood shot past the Cobra’s leg and exploded into the air, dropping down toward his face with one leg punching out like a piston.

  The Cobra, true to his name, slithered sideways on the hardwood and aimed a powerful chop just as Flood’s foot flashed past him. She took it on the outside of her thigh, grunted, hit the floor with one leg and lashed back at him with the other. She caught him square in the ribs, but he was off his feet when it landed. He flew backward, hit the floor, and spun back up—his hands had never touched the deck.

  Flood stepped back, circling her face with her hands, weaving a tapestry of death from the air. The Cobra’s mouth was bloody where he had bitten into his lip. He feinted to his left, pivoted on his right foot, firing another kick in Flood’s direction—but she hadn’t moved. Her back was to the door—all the fakes in the world wouldn’t get him through the opening.

  He advanced on her with an extended left hand, thrusting it in and out, circling to his left, not letting her get set to kick. He knew where the danger was—her feet, not her hands. He switched hands in a blur, his right fist shooting forward. Flood threw up her forearm in a block but it wasn’t clean—there was a sharp crack and her arm dropped down for a split-second as she spun away.

  He knew what he had to do now. He moved in again, hands out. Flood kicked at his midsection but he was ready—twisting with the force of her kick, he brought his hand out and around in a full spin and caught her just below the eye. It looked like an open-handed slap—Flood’s head snapped back with the blow, but she instantly blasted him full in the chest when he tried to follow up. He staggered back, losing his balance, and she was on him, blood streaming from under her eye. But the staggering was a fake—the Cobra caught her coming in and landed a three-finger dart to the same spot—his hand came away bloody. Flood hissed, hooking clawed fingers at his face with both hands, but he was already backing away, breathing smoothly.

  The Cobra was dancing now—up on his toes, shaking his wrists to get full circulation, relaxed. Flood stood as though rooted to the hardwood, one side of her face covered with blood. One eye was closed, but the other was clear and cold. I glanced over at Max—his face was composed but the cords of his neck stood out like high-tension wires, and his forearms were knotted steel. He was looking only at Flood. I knew what he was thinking—she’d never quit. Flood was wedded to the Cobra until death did them part.

  I silently screamed at her: “Flood, he’ll never leave this room alive no matter what. You don’t have to die too . . .” But I knew it was useless—there was nothing in her mind but the Cobra’s blood on Flower’s grave.

  He came in behind a cat-stance, offering only a snake’s shadow for a target. He fired an exploratory left leg but Flood stood dead-still. He spun in a full circle, driving t
he edge of his hand across his body right to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

  Flood hit the floor as though driven by the Cobra’s strike, but she was moving just ahead of his hand—she hit the floor with one palm and her own leg lashed out, the toe shooting toward his kneecap. I heard the crack before I saw him crumple and go down on one leg, the other twisted behind him—useless now. He clawed at her pants to bring her to him but she spun away and swirled to face him head-on—a blonde ghost—too quick for a Cobra to catch.

  Now it was the Cobra who was rooted to the ground, but his fangs still worked. Flood danced in, stepped past his hand-strike, and caught the side of his head with a spinning kick. His neck twisted with the kick, but he brought his hand around again just quickly enough to block her next shot. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heart—and the Cobra’s raspy mouth-breathing.

  Flood moved back over to him, set herself, rocked back on her right foot, and the left fired kick after kick—a heel to the side of the head, a toe to the neck, her powerful leg flashing inside the silk pants. He blocked some—but not enough. Flood was a graceful surgeon, cutting away flesh and bone to get to a tumor.

  Then she stepped right into his grasping fingers, looking down as he clawed up toward her groin—and kicked the other arm at the elbow joint. Another crack and he was down, face to the floor.

  She turned her back to him and went to her altar. She bowed deeply, reaching into the red silk folded on the little table. And when she turned again, the long metal spike was in one hand.

  As she approached the Cobra her body flowed into a crouch. She leaned forward, reaching out with her left hand, the spike held next to her hip on the right. The Cobra looked up at her, brought his hand out from under his body and held it out palm up. In surrender.