A throng of bikers came charging through the window. In the flash of lightning they looked like Viking raiders tearing through the monasteries of Northumbria, or a horde of Visigoths roaring with murderous glee as they sacked Rome. There were so many of them; they were armed with knives and chains and pistols, and even a couple of pump shotguns. They howled as they charged. A wordless bellow of fury; and their eyes blazed with madness.
They began firing wildly, not really aiming, but shooting as if the very air of the shop was something they wanted to kill. Bullets smashed mirrors and punched through the backs of the barber chairs and tore into the art pinned to the walls. Torn paper, plaster, and porcelain flew everywhere, and a hundred colors of ink splashed the walls and ceiling.
Patty grabbed Gayle and spun her around and down behind one of the chairs, Crow dove for the far wall to avoid being slashed to ribbons. Monk backpedaled, but the storm of splinters caught him, chopped at him. He went down to one knee, clawing at his Sig Sauer, but before he had it out Crow was up on one knee, his big Beretta .40 in a two-hand grip, challenging the storm with lightning and thunder of his own. The heavy slugs took one biker in the chest and another in the mouth, but his third shot struck the barrel of a shotgun, throwing that weapon high as it fired and then ripping it from the man’s hands.
Monk tore his gun free and dodged behind one of the barber chairs, firing an entire six-round magazine dry in seconds. He swapped in his second and only backup just as Crow’s slide locked back. The chief’s gun had a ten-shot magazine, but he had two full extras on his belt.
But before Crow could finish slapping in the new magazine the bikers were on him. Monk lost sight of him as three of the attackers swarmed in. Monk rose shooting, going for chests and faces at that range. Hitting everything he aimed at. But then he was out and used the butt of the Sig to smash into the visor of the closest man, then shoved him to send him crashing into the others. They were so densely packed that the force created a chain reaction, dragging four of them down and tripping the ones behind.
That gave Monk the only chance he had, and he took it. As one man stumbled over the legs of his comrade, Monk grabbed his shotgun and wrenched it free, using all of the strength of his hips to create torque. The jerk was so strong that Monk actually pirouetted in place, bringing the weapon up as he completed the turn. He tucked the stock hard against his shoulder and fired straight, aiming for the bobbing helmets and exposed faces. In the narrow confines of the tattoo parlor he could not miss, and the pellets sprayed outward from the barrel, doing awful butchery.
Suddenly there were new shots, but they came from behind him, and Monk pitched sideways, twisting as he fell, expecting to see the doom of all of them behind. But it wasn’t more of the Cyke-Lones barging in through the back—instead he gaped in astonishment to see Gayle standing in a wide-legged shooter’s stance, a small-frame Glock in her small hands. Her eyes were huge and full of shock at what she was doing as she pulled the trigger over and over again. Four of the bikers staggered backward or crumpled to the floor. None of them dove for cover, which was deeply weird in a situation where everything was weird.
Lord of the Flies.
A flash image of Spider provided the explanation, as well as the proof of their theory that somehow the bastard behind all this was able to exert some kind of freaky-deaky mindfuck on people. The bikers were more like drones or robots than thinking creatures. They could fight, drive bikes, use weapons, but that was all part of their imperative need to destroy the enemies of their master. There was no self-preservation in their actions. No unity of attack, either. With their numbers they could have already won, but they failed because each of them was attacking as an individual rather than with coordination was a flaw. A vulnerability. They were getting in each other’s way to try and accomplish their orders, which encumbered the others.
Gayle’s last shot rang out and one more biker fell, and then the others surged forward, still howling in that wordless challenge.
“I don’t have any more bullets,” she shrieked, and Monk saw Patty hook an arm around her waist and drag her away down the hall to the bedroom.
Monk dropped his pistol and pulled his two remaining weapons—the Buck knife and the blackjack—and flung himself at the killers.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of them fall sideways, one face turned into a red mask of ruin and the other clutching a crushed throat, and then Crow rose into sight. He was bleeding from a broken nose but he moved like a jungle cat—blindingly fast, lashing out with his open hands and with short, brutal kicks. Crow met Monk’s eyes for a split second, and there was a hell of a lot said. In that moment they understood each other. Monk recognized Crow as a fellow traveler through the storm lands. A scarred warrior who did not and would not accept the possibility of defeat. If these bastards were going to win then they would need to earn it, and it was going to cost them far more than they’d want to pay.