Chapter Twelve

 

 

PETERS TOOK A step back and looked dubiously at the door of apartment 311. “Kicking one of those things in—it’s a lot harder than it looks on TV,” he said, “and I haven’t got my lock picks with me, either.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Libby said. “Just be ready to go in fast.”

Peters nodded. Pulling the Kimber from his waistband, he thumbed the hammer back as quietly as he could. He looked up and down the hall, but could see no one stirring. Most of the tenants were probably still stuck in rush hour traffic.

Libby touched her wand to the door handle and said something in a language that Peters didn’t recognize. A moment later, there was a soft click as the lock disengaged and the door swung open a couple of inches.

Libby glanced toward Peters, took in a deep breath, and slowly pushed the door wide open. She stepped through and immediately took a pace to the right so that Peters could follow her into what looked like a spacious living room, although with most of the furniture pushed back against the walls.

The sight that greeted them was something out of a bad horror movie—the kind you watch late on a Saturday night because you’re bored and the stuff on all the other channels is even worse.

For starters, there were the hooded figures, dressed in long gray robes that stopped being fashionable about 1538—four men who had been chanting softly until Libby and Peters interrupted them. The four had turned toward the door and were looking at their visitors with a mixture of surprise and rage.

Most of the other elements from a cheap Hammer Films knockoff were present, as well: pentagram drawn on the hardwood floor—check; candles burning at each point of said pentagram—check; naked girl, (presumably the missing Kayla Holloway) suitably gagged to keep the screaming down, tied over the pentagram so that her hands, feet, and head each touched one of its points—check; some kind of sickly-sweet incense burning in a brazier—check; oh, and don’t forget the knife that one of the cowled men was holding—long, with an intricately curved blade that would be useless for slicing bread but just about perfect for plunging into the heart of the aforementioned naked girl, whose eyes above the gag were bulging in terror. It appeared as if the man with the knife had been just about to employ it for its intended purpose when Libby and Peters unexpectedly joined the party.

The knife wielder pushed his cowl back, revealing a bald, burly man with thick eyebrows who bore a passing resemblance to former B-movie star Tor Johnson. He pointed the knife at the two intruders and screamed, “Kill them both! Now!”

Peters raised the Kimber, adopting a two-handed combat shooting stance. “I wouldn’t do that, if I was you,” he said.

But the men, who appeared unarmed, paid the gun no heed—Peters might just as well have been pointing his finger at them. They headed toward Peters and Libby like NFL linebackers intent on sacking a particularly arrogant quarterback.

White magic won’t allow a witch to hurt someone, but it’s great stuff for playing defense. Libby had a spell prepared that would freeze all four men in place for as long as she wished. She was raising her wand to cast it when the bald man, who seemed to be in charge, reared back and threw the ceremonial knife at her. Libby’s magic could have dealt with that, too—but not in the half-second it would take for the knife to leave the man’s hand and reach its intended target, which seemed to be her throat. Libby had fast reflexes, and she was able to get a hand up in time to deflect the flying blade—but it was the hand that was holding her wand. The knife’s impact slashed her fingers and caused the wand to fly halfway across the big room. In pain, bleeding, and without her magic wand, Libby was now powerless to prevent the three men from reaching them.

Peters, however, was not so impaired. He put a .45 bullet into the head of the nearest man at about fifteen feet, sending blood and brain tissue to splatter the nearest wall. He did the same to the next man at twelve feet, and the third man had almost reached Peters when he receiveda bullet in the chest that passed through the left ventricle of his heart before exiting through the back of the medieval-looking robe. The shot was instantly fatal, but physics is physics. The man’s momentum carried him into Peters, who crashed to the floor with the dying man on top of him. Cursing, Peters pushed the dead weight off himself and came up on one knee, already seeking to acquire the final target. He was lining up the sights just as the bald man produced a gun of his own, a big revolver, and aimed it right at Peters’ face.

The two men stayed like that for several long seconds, each knowing that to fire was to bring on his own death an instant later.

Nobody knows how long this Mexican standoff would have continued, but then Libby, pale as a spectre and bleeding freely from her right hand, said softly, “I’ll... I’ll fetch my wand.” She began to move slowly in the direction the wand had taken when it had been knocked from her hand.

“Hold it right there, bitch,” the bald man growled.

“Fuck you,” Peters said, his voice tight with tension. “What’re you gonna do, huh? Take the gun off me so you can shoot her? You won’t even live long enough to pull the fucking trigger, asshole.” Without taking his eyes off the man, Peters said, “Go on, Libby. Get your wand. This situation could use a little magic.”

Before Libby could take another step, the bald man said, “You two Americans?”

“Yeah,” Peters said. “So what?”

“So you should know that you just gave your country a good, hard fuck up the ass.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he opened his mouth wide, stuck the gun barrel in and pulled the trigger.