Klempner

Although I can hear chaos from down the stairs, up here now, it’s quiet. There’s no-one in the dance room.

In the pool room, the only sound is the crunching of glass under my boots. I carry on to Finchby’s office.

All empty?

It seems so.

The time?

Time to go.

Except… as I’m about to turn and leave a girl, I see her; barely a teenager, some variety of Asian, Indian perhaps. Streaming tears, she skitters out from behind the desk, making for the kitchen.

I follow her and she cringes back into the corner. I offer my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have to leave.”

She babbles at me in I’ve-no-idea-what language, then abruptly, her face swings up to mine and fingers outstretched, leaps up at me, clawing at my face. Reflexively, I jerk back, and she bolts past me and out, back the way I came.

Fuck!

I dash after her, but in the few seconds, she’s gone, vanished.

Where did she go?

Out?

Or somewhere deeper inside?

I check my watch… Three minutes…

Christ!

I have to find her… If she’s on the stairwell, perhaps I’ll hear her. I turn for the bar, heading for the stairs up and down, and there…

Fuck.

Baxter.

I reach for my Glock… And it’s not there.

Damn… When did I put it down?

Baxter flashes brows. And the knife in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

“I was planning on leaving.” I slip the knife from my belt. “Your friend Finchby has already left the building. I believe the money may be with him.”

“I’m not going to weep over Finchby. And I didn't do it for the cash. Well… mainly not for the cash. And I have my half anyway.”

We circle, eyeball to eyeball.

Make the first move?

Wait for him?

I move slowly, watching for the twitch of the hand. The nudge of the shoulder. The tell that he's going to stop talking and...

He slashes out… moves fast…

But it’s a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me.

Testing me…

My speed…

My reactions…

Younger than me...

How much by?

Ten years?

His knife...

maybe eight inches. Well

Well used…

Left-handed…

gives him

right-handers.

out. Hard. Fast.

back and he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple.

I

Sweat. Sour.

scent of

Not excitement.

Fear.

I'm overreaching… off-balance… and I pull back recovering my

grins, then grunts as I lash for his neck but as he swings away, my fist lands in his

on my advantage, I bully forward, reaching for his blade, slashing out with

hand and he twists away, still grinning manically, but

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

I’m not. Just well-practised. As he swerves away from my right hand, my left hand

rib cage

Got you, you bastard…

her.

blind to me and Baxter, she charges between us and I twist away to

my foot skids

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

arms

I go down...

on

as his blade

rasp

The metallic tang of

Whose?

Mine…

maniacally, he hovers, enjoying his moment, the knife

he reaches into his jacket,

My Glock?

and aiming for my forehead, he backs

not use

the balls

on my elbows I swing round wildly, one way

There are none.

up, I’m staring straight up the barrel of my own fucking gun and to Baxter’s

Is this it?

this

wars with irritation. Of all the ways I could have died over the years, I’m taken out

something I

Live by the sword…

the mind works at these moments. The brain

don’t think

huge. The rest of the world vanishes around me. My peripheral vision

My throat tightens…

the real man.” The voice is sultry, smooth, and drips honey and contempt in equal measure… “A hero with a gun and a knife

I know that

its owner. So

her close to six feet in the spiked heels. The matching skirt just clears the crotch and the zip-front leather vest hugs a

shoulders and frames a face made up with emerald eyes

“Mitch?”

it. I

So does Baxter.

a brothel. It might have been full of women offering their all. But nothing compares to Mitch in

I have never seen her dressed like this, not even

curved to strike a pose. And with an eye on Baxter that dares

a finger

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