The Hound of Hell

by Rory Nelson

  Whalen enters, disheveled and unkempt as usual, wearing a rueful frown. “We’ve just adjourned.” states Renault.

  Whalen’s contemptuous chuckles reveal his tobacco-stained teeth. “Seems someone misinformed us of the time.”

  “You’ve already been briefed,” says Renault. “Terranimo, Fallon, Cutswayne and Rober will be briefed by Daliance the night before. It’s a simple enough plan to follow. Even your imbecilic cohorts could follow it.”

  While Whalen saunters over to Renault, he whips out Renault’s deadly blade. It bears Renault’s famous moniker, The Hound of Hell. Whalen twirls it around with malice, hoping to intimidate Renault. Instead, Renault looks at it with curiosity, feigning surprise and snatches it out of midair. “Wherever did you find this?” he asks with sarcasm. “I was looking all over for it,” Renault snickers and breaks out into giddiness. Whalen indignantly stares at him.

  “You know where I found this. Buried in Tinsmore’s fucking chest!” he booms.

  “That is a pity indeed. I fear the level of service was not what he had hoped,” says Renault as his laughter continues.

  Whalen launches a punch at Renault’s face. But he ducks a split second before being catapulted across the room. Renault sidesteps, pivots and returns a power jab to Whalen’s groin, eliciting his excruciating cries.

  As Whalen hunches over, Renault jabs his side, connects with his nose, emitting blood and a sickening crunching noise. He gears up for a devastating elbow smash into Whalen’s face, but Daliance and Drake pull Renault away. The blow might have killed Whalen.

  “That’s enough!” yells Drake. “What the fuck are you doing? I don’t care how much you hate him! We need him in commission. Get a hold of yourself!”

  “I cry pardon,” Renault says. “He attempted to strike first.”

  “So, you give him his in return and no more! You ken?” Drake glares at him. “You go too far, brother. You always have.”

  Daliance walks away with his younger counterparts, Kilroy, Gellen, Penryn, Coit and Egor, but not before giving Renault an indignant smirk and a shake of their heads. “You sure as hell ain’t in any shape to be a leader, Renault. God help us all if Merlin believes you to be.” He strides out before Renault has a chance at a witty retort.

  Terranimo and Fallon try to help Whalen up, but he pushes them away. He stares at Renault with icy malevolence. “There will be a reckoning soon, brother. Perhaps sooner than you think,” he says with a nose-plugged voice.

  “I hope so,” replies Renault. “Yours is long overdue.” Whalen walks out, a little faint from the beat down. He puts a handkerchief over his nose to stifle the bleeding. Terranimo, Fallon, Cutswayne and Rober follow.

  Renault follows, but Drake holds him back. “Uh-uh brother. You wait a few minutes. I don’t want this shit escalating any more than it already has. Ten minutes.”

  “That an order?” asks Renault.

  “Sure the fuck is,” answers Drake. “Seeing as you ain’t fit to order anyone at the moment with all your impetuous Tom Fuckery.”

  With reluctance, Renault nods in agreement. “Perhaps I went too far.” he admits.

  “Perhaps?”

  “I did,” he sighs in frustration. “But that man really riles me, Drake.”

  “As he does us all,” replies Drake. “But we’re a little better about keeping it in check. You ken?’

  Renault nods.

  Drake sighs in mutual frustration. “Let’s try and not get us all fucking killed, brother- before we go out and get ourselves fucking killed. You ken?”

  Renault snickers. “I couldn’t have put it anymore eloquently, brother. Well spoken.” He looks at Drake, stifling another laughing fit. Seconds later, they erupt in raucous laughter.

  “You’re a real fucking asshole!” retorts Drake.

  Chapter 8: Errant Start

  With frayed nerves spilling pain in his temples, Whalen paces his luxurious room in The Belmond Hotel. The building remains next to the Filmore rail lines in Senegaul City. The Sene-Gauls sent their best operative Fallslander Bert-also known as Desmond Lowbrau, Kitland Sumeron, and the Demon Knightingale. Along with a host of other aliases, these intermittent names serve a purpose.

  Fallslander, a seasoned assassin, possesses battle prowess and training to mirror Renault’s. He started training at the ripe age of six and topped his class. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat, shotguns, pellet guns, pistols, flamethrowers and knives, his training seems unmatched. Though not a telepath like Renault, he is very intelligent, stalwart and invincible as an accomplished killer. Once at the age of twelve, Fallslander fought in the death match arena, and slaughtered grown men over twice his size.

  And if his presence wasn’t enough, the Sene-Gauls commissioned another dozen operatives. They must intercept and eliminate Renault before he boards the Southern Line in secret. Having a successful mission was contingent on that. Without that, the mission is doomed. These facts should have comforted Whalen and set his mind at ease. So why all these lingering doubts and misgivings? Maybe because if they successfully rescue General Crixus, he would be as good as dead.

  The rendezvous time is 1:30. He pulls out his watch and checks the time. 1:31, dammit. A knock on the door follows. Whalen heaves a sigh of relief and answers it. Fallslander stands outside and does not wait for a reply. He sidesteps Whalen and enters. “At your service,” says Fallslander. He is a towering brute who stands as tall as Whalen. Although with his perfect upright posture, he appears taller.

  Fallslander is in diametrical opposition to Whalen in every other way too. Instead of Whalen’s lankiness, Fallslander shows a solid muscular physique evidenced by his tight-fitting yellow canary jacket. His ensemble is immaculate and pressed to perfection. Fallslander wears a black top hat made of felt. When he takes it off, Fallslander reveals his shoulder-length black hair. His locks are combed back and oiled to a glowing sheen. His moustache is as refined and curled so tight it wouldn’t break in a hurricane. Fallslander appears as the consummate and refined businessman. But when he buttons down his jacket, his true nature presents itself.

  Two large caliber shooters hang from his holsters. Inside his vests are a plethora of small, surgical sharp knives which glow from the overhead lamp.

  “You’re late,” observes Whalen, presenting the watch to him as proof.

  “Not by my count,” says Fallslander.

  Fallslander shows him his gold pocket watch with a diamond-crusted face plate and smiles. The time on his watch says exactly 1:30.

  “Maybe mine runs fast,” says Whalen.

  “Not maybe,” says Fallslander. “It does. I’m never late.”

  “You’ve been briefed by Terranimo then?”

  “That I have. Board the train and eliminate Renault, the Hound of Hell. I think it’s probably the most straightforward assignment I’ve ever had. Bit of an overkill sending in another dozen men to subdue him. I assure you they won’t be needed.”

  “Ai. That may be so, but you don’t know Renault. He’s a bit of a tricky sumbitch. He’s an elite killer and the kills to prove it. If he gets wind of you, you as sure as fuck gonna have your work cut out for you.”

  “I’ve never failed a mission. Not once. Even when I’ve had to improvise, I’ve come through. Your man is as good as dead-his death warrant issued the moment you conscripted me.”

  “But this one’s a tricky fuck.”

  “I’ve taken out many tricky fucks, Sai, set watch and warrant it.” His cold gray eyes are as detached and cold as the eyes of a hindserpent. His expression remains deadpan.

  “That’s welcome news. You’ve come as the most highly recommended. But I have one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He needs to suffer as much as possible.”

  Fallslander comes closer to Whalen. Whalen reflexively flinches and backs away. Fallslander pulls out two circular knives which have several razor-sharp points hooked along several edges. Large, grooved indentations encircle the shiny blade
and give the throwing knife aerial capabilities. He twirls them around hypnotically fast and releases them. They smash into a brick mantle, ricocheting off. It lodges in the concrete wall to a depth of at least two feet- just inches from Whalen’ balls.

  “I could have taken off your balls if I’d wanted to. Satisfied?”

  Whalen finds it difficult to speak for several seconds. “Ai,” he croaks out.

  As Fallslander smiles, he reveals his gleaming chiseled-to-a-point white teeth which provokes a predatory look. In rapid succession, he draws his two 12-shooters and spins them around. They float in midair and re-materialize in his holsters. Whalen has no doubt he is just as accurate with them.

  “Satisfied with my arsenal, Sai?”

  “Very,” answers Whalen. “Just make sure he suffers. Immensely.”

  “That Sai, is a foregone conclusion. I guarantee he will suffer before I send him to the afterlife.”

  (2)

  Drake, the Kill-Smith, walks nervously around the small hotel room adjacent from the train station. It is catty-corner to the Belmond. Renault sips on some tea and reads the Bixby Post, perusing the classified section. Before missions, Renault appears unflappable and as serene as an old man taking his first shit in three days.

  Renault looks up from his paper with a smile. “Good news, brother.”

  “What?” asks Drake in an irritated tone.

  “No further word from Merlin, so we’re on schedule.”

  “We didn’t expect there to be, did we?” questions Drake.

  “No. It’s a go,” answers Renault with an air of contentment and a deadpan expression.

  “I still believe I should go with you. We don’t trust Whalen.”

  Renault casually puts his paper down. “We discussed it, brother. It’s better to have you here, as the counterpoint to the counterpoint. If something should go wrong, we must implement¬—”

  Drake cuts him off. “I know. Plan B.”

  “Precisely,” answers Renault pointedly. “I need you to watch my back and you’re the only one who can do it. If Whalen should turn on us and I don’t make it to the Southern Line, this mission is doomed. And, Crixus is a dead man — as all our men will be. There’s no turning back now.”

  Renault pulls out his pocket watch and looks at it. “It’s time. Neither hell nor high water will keep us from our duty. Wipe that worry from your face, brother. It’s what we live for.”

  “It’s what you live for,” mumbles Drake.

  “I heard that, brother.” Renault gathers his briefcase and looks at himself in the mirror. He is the very embodiment of refined elegance. Renault’s oiled hair is tied back in a ponytail. His face smooth and his pale blue eyes almost iridescent in the lamp’s harsh glow. His form-fitting suit envelops his small waist and hints at his muscular proportions underneath. Renault smiles and reaches for his gun belt. He opens his coat to touch his flap jacket underneath. Renault feels encouraged by the plethora of his surgically sharp daggers.

  “Time to go.” He gives Drake a hug. “Godspeed, brother.”

  “Oh, before I go, take these,” says Renault as he hands him some marbles.

  Drake looks at them dubiously. “Well. I suppose if we had some jacks and a hoppy board, I suppose I could play a game of hoppyscotch. Doubt we have the time.”

  Renault laughs at him. “They’re not marbles. Merlin’s invention. They’re called pop rocks. Squeeze them too tight in your hands and they might explode by accident and cause a nasty injury. They’re loud as hell. Might make for a diversion if you’re in need of one.”

  Drake shrugs in a non-committing way but puts them in his pockets. “What the hell. Godspeed brother.”

  Renault walks to the train line and doesn’t look back. With his hyper-oculars, Drake takes his position and observes Renault. Way off to the right exiting out of the Belmond Hotel is an equally resplendent gentleman. He wears a tight-fitting canary yellow suit and is rather tall. Almost too purposeful in his walk. From this distance, Drake notices the way his eyes scan the area, as if he is scrutinizing the scene. For what?

  Perhaps Drake is being paranoid. He doesn’t want to break protocol for no reason, so he waits.

  The train horn whistles loudly every few minutes, alerting the passengers to the train’s imminent departure. From the rear window of Drake’s room, the men mask their movements with the noise. Their goal -- to remove the glass. In seconds, the glass piece detaches with glass cutters and a suction cup. They slip inside seconds later, hand signaled by their leader.

  Drake watches the gentleman in the dreadful canary yellow suit. If he is trailing Renault, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it. Perhaps Drake is wrong about him and he is only a passenger. Still, he observes him.

  As the yellow suited man walks toward the train station, he motions other men. They look equally as polished and refined in their expensively tailored, long blue-tapered suits. Each man walks briskly toward the train in the same direction as the yellow-suited man. A different man signals several men with his hands. When they see it, they acknowledge and nod in agreement.

  Drake peers closer. He catches a faint glimpse of some hard iron, possibly a set of speed shooters. Businessmen don’t normally wear such hardware on business trips- if at all. “Fuck,” he mutters.

  He moves for the door. But he is held in check by the threat of razor-sharped steel pressed against his throat. The slightest move draws a small amount of blood seeping along the edge of the razor.

  “You make one more move, and I promise you’re going to see a lot more blood. You ken?” says a low pitched, yet authoritative voice. “Nod, if you understand.”

  Drake nods.

  “That’s a good pup. Looks like we got the drop on you, Sai. Seems you didn’t check that window like you should have.”

  “I must remember that for next time.” The men around him laugh in response. Now Drake knows how many there are and where they are situated. His eyes shift around quickly, gathering the details.

  Outside the train whistles, signaling departure.

  Drake sighs. “Stand up,” says the man. Drake complies. The owner of the voice appears before him, while whoever holds the knife presses it against his throat. The man is resplendently attired, similar to the other men who followed Renault onto the train. “You must give me the name of your tailor. He’s splendid,” quips Drake.

  The men snicker in amusement.

  “We know there’s no one here,” says the man. “We searched this whole place. Is there anyone else on point? Someone next door?”

  Drake takes the bait. “Ai, there’s Whalen at the Belmond, covering point.” The men look at each other and laugh, as if it is the funnies jest. “Oh, Sai. No need to worry about him, set watch and warrant.”

  “Who else?” demands the man. Drake’s lack of response induces the man to motion to the man holding the knife. He pushes it harder into Drake’s throat, expelling a tiny amount of blood.

  “Who?” demands the man.

  “Blane,” responds Drake.

  “Where is he?”

  “Next door. I’m set to rendezvous with him in only a couple of minutes. If I’m not there, he’s going to come looking for me. If you’re looking for a bloodbath, just keep me here and see for yourself.”

  “How do we get in touch with him?”

  “These rooms are adjoining. I’m to signal him to confirm the plan is a go.”

  “Show us,” says the man.

  The man holding Drake turns him around toward the back of the room. As he does, Drake takes a hold of the pop rocks in his hands and squeezes them. With a flick of his wrist, he casually tosses the rock down the hall. The men instinctively look in the direction of the noise. And, for a split second, the man holding the knife against Drakes’ throat decreases the pressure on it.

  Several deafening bangs issue out of the small room. The men instinctively reach for their weapons and fire in the direction of the hall. The man who had been holding the knife on his throat rel
eases him completely.

  As he does, Drake hunches down and grabs the knife from him. Drake twists it in an arc and slashes it across the man’s throat. The sharp blade slices through the man’s Adam’s apple. The hole emits a crimson spray that pours from his neck. He clutches on to his neck to stifle the blood flow.

  As he drops to the ground, Drake grabs his speed shooters. In one seamless move, he fires on the other men. The leading foe, shot in the forehead and neck, sprays his exploding cartilage and splattering blood on the wall. He falls to the ground in a mess of brain matter and crimson.

  Drake fires several rounds, hitting two of the other three men in the chest and stomach. They double over, screaming in piercing wails as their intestines pour from their gaping holes.

  One man avoids Drake’s gunfire. He dives underneath the bed and fires off every few seconds.

  Drake waits behind the bathroom door and crouches down in a low position, making a difficult target of himself. He reflexively tightens up, bracing himself for the deafening bang of bullets. The sound rips through the door and splinters the wood.

  By his reckoning, the man has three shots left. He waits, but the man doesn’t fire. He thinks quickly of a plan. In nervous anticipation, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and discover he has one pop rock left. With a flick of his wrist, he throws it toward the door. As it smashes into the door, the pop rock detonates, creating another deafening bang.

  As the assailant turns towards the sound, Drake flies from his hiding spot. He dives toward the bed and fires several rounds at him. At such close range, his shots find a home by penetrating the man’s face. His cheekbone and nose shatters in a cartilage mess and gore. And, in the split second to scream in agony, a bullet penetrates his cerebral cortex. An instant kill.

  In the distance, the faint sound of the train echoes with a slow, steady, increasing speed. Drake bolts out the door. With blood splatter and brain gore drenching his face, he appears crazed. Frenetic train goers instinctively avoid him as he sprints toward the train. Drake wipes away the carnage from his face enough to see in front of him. He sprints hard for the last twenty yards. Though building speed, the train is almost to the end of the passenger landing.