Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  Chapter 45

  “Senor Sombra,” Pedro shouted. “I know you are not armed! Otherwise, you would have already tried to shoot me, no? I can understand your willingness to survive! But perhaps it is time you understand that this is the way it is going to be! If you come out now, I promise you I will be merciful! There will be no pain!”

  Still stationed behind the tree, Xavier slowly bent at the knees while keeping his back against its wide trunk. He filled a hand with two small rocks, and then returned to a straightened position. The nylon garden hose he'd carried with him was already tied in place.

  “If you prolong this, I cannot say what will happen!” Pedro warned. “I am not very patient, Sombra! But unlike my friend back in the house, I have no wish to see people suffer needlessly!”

  Xavier shook his head. He understood why the guy was talking, but it didn't make it any less stupid. Just keep yapping, asshole, Xavier thought. I’m having a hard enough time seeing you as it is. He chucked the rocks several yards to the right, where they struck another tree, making a considerable clatter. The assassin pinpointed the direction of the sound and sprinted toward it with his gun extended in front of him like a guided missile. Once he passed between the two off-setting trees, Xavier tugged hard on the garden hose tripwire he’d tied to one of them and had concealed with loose dirt and leaves. It caught the assassin's right foot perfectly and the low-life went down, face in the dirt. Xavier's size-ten hiking boot then kicked out, connecting with the assassin's wrist and sending his gun into a sea of darkened underbrush. The unforgiving strip of nylon was around the assassin's neck before he could even come up for air. Xavier leaned back, crossed his arms and pulled hard from both three and nine o'clock, ordering his muscles to perform well beyond their capacity. He had to end this quick, he thought. Glenda was still in danger back at the house.

  Pedro felt the blood pooling in his head and knew, instantly, he was done for if he didn't summon his strength. He threw his upper body forcefully against the sombra's thighs and collapsed his center of gravity. The sombra fell backward and lost most of his grip on the ligature. Pedro then threw back and elbow and caught the sombra in the balls.

  Xavier buckled from the shot, which had caught him not squarely in the balls, but close enough to feel the infamous recoil in his gut. The assassin then rolled over and tried to get a fist into Xavier's face. Xavier threw up his guard and blocked it. He drove his knee upward to keep the assassin from pinning him. He struck him just under the chin and the assassin toppled backward, straightening his knees and going upright. Xavier rolled quickly out of his path and came to a standing position, half nauseated. Good, he thought. At least now it was a fair fight.

  Using a little slight-of-hand, Pedro produced a six-inch carbon steel hunting knife from his person like a seasoned stage magician. His other hand, balled with a fist full of dirt, remained low at his side. He stared his opponent down, his eyes narrowed to slits. He'd lost his goggles when he pulled himself out from under what he could now see was a nylon garden hose that had been wrapped around his neck. He tauntingly slashed the air.

  Xavier shook his head in disgust. Terrific, he thought and tensed into a defensive posture, throwing his arms vertically across his torso to protect his vital organs.

  “You impress me, Sombra,” Pedro said smoothly. “You do not give up easily. I like that in a man.” He then advanced on Xavier athletically, thrusting and slashing with the knife in a standard saber grip.

  “Come on, you’ve got to do better than that,” Xavier teased. He'd judged this guy to be vulnerable to smack-talk. And, he was trying not to look equally impressed by the assassin's agility; any attempt at psych-out was warranted.

  Pedro made another quick slashing motion with his knife and whipped a fistful of dirt into Xavier’s face on the return.

  Shit! The dirt blinded Xavier in his right eye, but his left eye was unscathed. Xavier instantly anticipated the hunting knife's blade bulleting toward his chest. As he stepped back, preparing to greet the attack, he felt what he prayed was the assassin's pistol under his boot. He sidestepped to the outside, seized Pedro's knife hand and fixed it under his armpit up to the elbow. Keeping his movements fluid, Xavier brought his other arm underneath Pedro's bicep to get a solid lock then dropped backward, propelling them both into a judo flip.

  Pedro landed on his back with a whump. He expected the sombra to roll with him and try for the pin, but instead he let go. By time Pedro got to his feet, which was all of two seconds, he could see why.

  “Hold it,” Xavier said sternly. He had recovered a split second faster, retrieved Pedro’s gun and was aiming him down.

  “What are you waiting for, Sombra?” Pedro said matter-of-factly. “I'm going to cut you're lady's head off anyway.”

  Xavier bared his teeth. Any notion of mercy had just went out the window. “Your funeral,” he said...and squeezed the trigger.

  Or tried to.

  Xavier peered down at the weapon in horror. Peeking from between three of his fingers was a half-inch, blue incandescent stripe that ran the length of the grip. A biometric print lock. Kidding me, he thought. Why the hell was he having such bad luck with guns lately?

  Chapter 46

  Glenda circled the house in fits and starts, wanting desperately to call out for Xavier. When she found no sign of him, she darted swiftly across the shortest distance to the thick band of trees. It made sense, she thought. He talked about luring them away. The surrounding woods was the only “away” there was and if he was being followed he'd want to get there fast. “Damn it, Xavier, you’d better be alive or else,” she whispered to herself. As she went about catching her breath, a tiny green firefly fluttered across her field of vision. It didn't even take a full second before she realized what it truly was and she dove reflexively in the opposite direction. A large chunk of bark exploded from the tree closest by her.

  “You scrawny bitch,” Bonaparte yelled from across the lawn. “I can’t wait to fucking kill you!” He wanted to say more, but stifled it. It was dumb to shout out like that to begin with, but his rage was at peak capacity. He felt woozy and sensed the mild stream of blood dribbling down the back of his head. He had a concussion for sure. He knew it after spending almost twenty seconds on the floor of the basement in a haze. He'd gotten up, found the lift disabled and had to search under his night-vision for another way up. After a minute, he'd discovered the staircase at the far end of the room and ascended it with the itchiest of trigger fingers. When he found the first floor devoid of life, he'd headed outside. The Jameson bitch was running for the trees. He aimed out and fired, his vision wavering. He was never so angry at having missed. He took off toward Glenda's position, but by the time he traversed the lawn, Glenda—ex high-school track star—had blended seamlessly into the Stygian forest.

  This is crazy. This is crazy! Glenda thought, as she flattened her back against the base of a maple tree wide enough to conceal three of her. It dawned on her that the second assassin could be watching her right now. But then I'd be dead right? What would stop either of them from shooting me where I stood? Dammit, Kelmer was right. I'm only making things worse. She angled her head to look out from behind the tree. She heard the ground rustle close to her along with that familiar shift of airflow. Before she could even think, Glenda's fist catapulted behind her in a full 180-degree swing. It did her no good. Her forearm brushed over a head of hair and the next thing she knew, a sweaty palm flattened against her mouth and nearly butted her head against the tree.

  Bonaparte angrily skulked his way into the maze of trees, jumping at odd noises and blasting off rounds of tracer fire into the dense woods. Night-vision was great, but it couldn't stop him from wasting ammo on shit that wasn't human. He was desperate to call out for Pedro. He couldn't raise him on the two-way and was starting to worry.

  When something streaked across Bonaparte's line of sight from several yards away, he nearly fired, but thought better of it. If he missed or was shooting at an animal
, he'd have only succeeded in broadcasting his position—assuming he hadn't done so already. But that was no animal, he thought. Too big. Bonaparte scampered through the brush, pursuing the image with abject murder in his eyes. Naturally, by time he reached the sight, whatever he had seen was long gone.

  “Come on, you chicken-shit,” Bonaparte whispered to himself. “Come...He whipped his head hard to the left. There! The woman! He could see her plain as day in the green glow of his night-vision standing by a tree of her own. A perfect profile staring off in a full ninety-degrees from his position. Bonaparte pressed a shoulder to the tree he stood by and aimed out. When he was sure he had his shot, he squeezed gently on the trigger. The muzzle of his gun flashed and the woman flinched. She ducked behind her tree and Bonaparte lost sight of her altogether. No fucking way, he thought. His eyes were playing tricks on him. No way she ducked that! Bonaparte sprinted to the spot where she had been standing, cock-sure he would find a partially decapitated corpse or, at the very least, some blood spatter.

  “Shit!” he grumbled. Nothing! Not a damn thing! He continued to pan the immediate area, regardless. His eyes came to a stop at about nine o'clock south. He spied the body laying face down in the dirt, a fleck of moonlight bouncing off the quality patent leather of its coat. He got him, Bonaparte, thought. The shithead who ran from the house, Pedro got him. Yes! He moved in to confirm the kill, all the while, keeping his MAG aimed straight down at the stilled body. He could already smell the fat five-figure bonus that would soon be burning a hole in his pocket.

  He squatted over the body and got the sickest of chills as he reached under its ribcage. From there, the body seemed to turn over almost in slow motion. Its chin dropped so far over the shoulder that it left no question as to the cause of death. And Bonaparte had certainly inflicted enough broken necks in his time to know one when he saw it. The body wasn't even completely on its back before Bonaparte recognized the face.

  Pedro!

  Bonaparte's lips went dry as he gawked at the battered face of his lover and partner, motionless on the ground. “What the fu...” He heard the squish of twigs and soft earth behind him.

  Xavier had to choose between disarming the assassin or bashing his skull in. He chose the latter. But when the asshole turned to shoot at the last second, Xavier had to adapt. He was grateful that he'd found a big enough stick rather than a rock. He swung his makeshift club in a heavy downward arc. It connected with the assassin's wrist and a muzzle-flash lit up the space between them. The assassin yelped in pain, dropping his weapon into the swampy brush. Having successfully subtracted the gun from the equation, Xavier kicked out at the assassin's knee, but missed. The blow with the club had been all that was needed to make the killer back away.

  Bonaparte stepped aside from a foot that was poised to crack his knee, but, instead, just scraped his thigh. His MAG was lost and his wrist was on fire. Son-of-a-bitch might have even broken a bone with that big-ass stick. Thankfully, Bonaparte still had use of his left arm and this idiot had leaned in just close enough trying to kick him. Bonaparte dealt out a left hook with a ton of weight behind it, along with an equal helping of anger. If he hadn't loosened a few of this guy's teeth it would be a miracle.

  Xavier absorbed the left hook like a champ. His definition of champ, of course, meaning he didn't go down. However, the assassin wasted no time jumping onto Xavier's back and pushing him to the ground. He caught Xavier too far from the right which prevented him from straddling Xavier altogether. They clamped on to each other and their fists pumped back-and-forth, in-and-out, in short concentrated jabs. Xavier fought, like the devil, to get the upper hand. After a few seconds, he got the assassin on his back and shoved a forearm under his chin.

  “Who sent you?” Xavier asked. “Was it Wallace? Does he know who I am?”

  Bonaparte answered with a sharp hand-heel to Hawkins's left ear. He could see his face now and it was a sure bet the Kelmer geek wasn't this good a fighter.

  The two men tussled along, trading punches until Bonaparte finally managed to deliver a right cross that had the former MP seeing stars. He pinned Hawkins to the ground and clutched his throat with both hands. Xavier quickly felt his face go puffy and his ears about to explode. Son-of-a-bitch was strong! Xavier struggled to get an arm free, but the assassin had planted his knees perfectly into both biceps.

  “Hey, asshole!” someone hollered.

  Bonaparte looked up to see a frazzled woman looking at him and waving her arms like she was flagging a cab. The Jameson bitch!

  Glenda had no idea what she was doing. She only knew that Xavier was dead if she didn't do something. When she busted that stool over the assassin's back, she had every intention of grabbing his gun, after he fell unconscious. Only, he didn't fall unconscious. He just fell. Always worked in the movies, she'd thought. Once he started shooting into the smoke, Glenda had no choice but to flee. And now he had gotten the better of Xavier, just as she'd feared.

  “I'm over hear, shit-for-brains!” she shouted.

  Xavier felt a release of pressure against his biceps. The result of the assassins reflex to switch targets. He got his arms free and dealt the assassin a jolting uppercut. Xavier then hammered his opponent's solar plexus with a two-fisted punch. The assassin's diaphragm locked up tighter than a bank vault and he keeled over, half-paralyzed from the sudden lack of oxygen. Xavier then unloaded on the assassin, dealing a series of thunderous punches to the left side of his face. Xavier stopped only when he felt no resistance on the last follow-through. When he decided the assassin was out, Xavier unhanded him and sucked in a delicious serving of piney forest air. He was exhausted. He wanted so much to find his own spot on the ground and settle in for nap. Instead, Xavier raised off of his defeated foe and hobbled valiantly in Glenda's direction. She started toward him and he raised a hand, stopping her cold. He closed the distance between them on his own.

  “I ought to kick your butt,” he growled. Xavier had wanted to shake Glenda by the arms when he found her lurking around the forest like a lost three-year-old in a super-mart. He'd scanned her image into the hologram projector for a reason. What was the point of him lugging the damn thing with him if she was just going to run outside and get her ass shot off? “I told you to say put! What were you thinking, leaving the house?”

  “I was thinking you needed someone to watch your back for a change,” Glenda retorted. She waved her hands at him, in a tizzy. “I'm sorry! I screwed up, okay? I made a mistake.”

  Xavier, shook his head. He knew she wasn't talking about leaving the house. She was talking about Peter Simonton. He straightened a finger in front of her, made sure it wasn't sticking in her face. There was a thin line between being scolded and being denigrated. “Don't you ever do anything like that again,” he said.

  “Alright, alright, I'm sorry. How many more times do you want me to say it?”

  Xavier glared at her just long enough to be satisfied that he'd been heard.

  Glenda recognized the look right away.

  He still cares, she thought and suddenly felt all warm inside. She had feared her confessing about Peter had changed something. She was deliriously happy to see she was wrong. She was overcome with the urge to wrap her arms around Xavier and never let go. This is why men think we're all crazy, she thought. We really do need to piss them off sometimes. She bit her lips and folded her arms. But it's still their fault. How else are we supposed to know they give a damn?

  Bonaparte slipped his index finger inside the trigger-guard of his 380 Ruger and took grip of the handle. He had heard just about enough of this crap and decided it was either now or never. It was unfortunate, that the same arm that probably had a fractured wrist was the one he had to use to retrieve the Ruger. It hurt like hell and Bonaparte wasn't positioned right to reach across his body to the outer ankle without lifting his leg or sitting up. And either of those actions, would be too conspicuous, even in this darkness. Bonaparte eyed his targets hungrily. The Ruger held seven rounds and he'd use eve
ry one of them if need be. He could certainly get a head-shot at Hawkins, but the Jameson bitch was a big maybe. He thought once more of Pedro and decided it didn't matter. He took a breath and did a three-count. One...two...three.

  The wretched bang and its congruent muzzle-flash cleaved the darkness of the forest. Xavier went down, taking Glenda with him as he hit the dirt. Glenda screamed at the top of her lungs, her heart drumming against the inside of her chest.

  There had been only one shot. A clean entry and exit right through the skull, of all things. A definite kill. Far more perfect than the shooter ever expected.

  Richard Kelmer had been stricken stiff as a statue, watching the barrel of his M9 Beretta dispense smoke like a metal cigar. If Kelmer hadn't been the only one left holding a gun, one would think he had been shot. Did I just...He couldn't finish the thought. He had only fired the gun one other time and that was to scare off a passel of opossums that had taken up residence too close to his outdoor trash compactor. But he'd never even thought of using it against another human being. Never imagined he would have to. I did, he thought to himself. I did just...Oh lord.