Read Online Emerald City Blues by Peter Smalley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Smalley
Ads: Link
sounded just like a gunshot somewhere below. As in a service revolver. Dammit, Malloy.
I was running. That was a bad idea. I was going through the dark hatch and down the steep grated ladder beyond. That was a really bad idea. I was pausing just long enough to fish my Beretta out of my pocket and pull back the hammer.
That was a better idea, but only when set beside its fellow ideas in the police line-up of usual suspects.
I plunged on into the dim recess. A single naked bulb burned a sulfurous yellow at the far end of the narrow passage. Doors lined both sides of the hall but none were open. I ignored them and ran past. A hard right turn at the end of the hall. Another set of stairs. Why was Malloy going below? Who was he shooting at? I sincerely hoped it was him doing the shooting.
Faster. A memory of my father telling me about how to chase a suspect. Don't outrun your field of view. Keep your barrel pointed straight ahead, gun hand steady even when running. Watch your blind spots. My shoes clattered on the grated ladder. No time to go quietly. Another turn, more stairs, light at their foot. The ceiling opened up as I went down, and I found myself in the belly of the beast. Here in the hold of the ship, crates were stacked three high in row after dark row as far as the light could reach. Blind spots everywhere.
I recognized the crates immediately. I'd seen them up close and personal at the warehouse where the Russian Tiger had knocked my block off before burning the place down. Gun hand steady. Stay pointed. Stay sharp. I’m trying, Dad.
Malloy was on the floor, slumped against a stack of crates, eyes shut. His right hand was under his left arm, clutching tight to his side.
I knelt down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Malloy.” I was shaking. I tried not to shake him. “Malloy! What happened?”
His eyes flickered ope n, shuttered, opened again. “Promised your father I’d look out for you, lass. Keep you safe. I’m sorry, Maddie-girl.”
“Sorry? For what? Are you hurt, or –” A shadow flickered in my peripheral vision and I flung myself to the left. Something long and dark carved a path through the space where my head had been a moment earlier. At this distance I could feel the power of the Art radiating from it like heat from a blast furnace. I ended up on my side, shoulder hard against the crates, half-turned toward Malloy. A tall, thin silhouette stood backlit above me - not by the weak lights of the cargo hold, but ringed with a visible nimbus of sheer power. He held something long and dark in his hand. His hair was a blond halo around his head.
“For this.” Malloy twisted toward me, his right hand leaving its place under his left side and rushing towards me. The butt of the pistol he clutched in it struck me in the right temple. I saw bright white light, then none at all.
TEN
I was wrong. There was a worse hangover cure than waking up in jail. It involved having one's wrists cuffed together and then being hung from a pipe by a rusty chain for a few hours. Give or take.
You've never had the pleasure ? Oh, you really must try it some time. There’s a funny thing about being held captive. Everyone is someone’s captive. The trick is knowing whose.
I would have liked very much to know whose captive I was right now . A bag of ice would have gone over nicely too, while I was making wishes. Someone had played a lullaby on my head with brass knuckles. Scratch that - on my entire body. I hurt all over. I must have made a sound because even before my eyes opened I heard an amused voice not far from me. "She wakes. So you've decided to rejoin us. How lovely." Her voice was low and dark, like good cigarettes drenched with honey, and it rang with power. I remembered that voice. The last time I'd heard it, someone had used my head for batting practice. With a crowbar.
I opened my eyes and regretted it. I was in a small room, about twenty feet on a side. One wall was of curved metal,
I was running. That was a bad idea. I was going through the dark hatch and down the steep grated ladder beyond. That was a really bad idea. I was pausing just long enough to fish my Beretta out of my pocket and pull back the hammer.
That was a better idea, but only when set beside its fellow ideas in the police line-up of usual suspects.
I plunged on into the dim recess. A single naked bulb burned a sulfurous yellow at the far end of the narrow passage. Doors lined both sides of the hall but none were open. I ignored them and ran past. A hard right turn at the end of the hall. Another set of stairs. Why was Malloy going below? Who was he shooting at? I sincerely hoped it was him doing the shooting.
Faster. A memory of my father telling me about how to chase a suspect. Don't outrun your field of view. Keep your barrel pointed straight ahead, gun hand steady even when running. Watch your blind spots. My shoes clattered on the grated ladder. No time to go quietly. Another turn, more stairs, light at their foot. The ceiling opened up as I went down, and I found myself in the belly of the beast. Here in the hold of the ship, crates were stacked three high in row after dark row as far as the light could reach. Blind spots everywhere.
I recognized the crates immediately. I'd seen them up close and personal at the warehouse where the Russian Tiger had knocked my block off before burning the place down. Gun hand steady. Stay pointed. Stay sharp. I’m trying, Dad.
Malloy was on the floor, slumped against a stack of crates, eyes shut. His right hand was under his left arm, clutching tight to his side.
I knelt down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Malloy.” I was shaking. I tried not to shake him. “Malloy! What happened?”
His eyes flickered ope n, shuttered, opened again. “Promised your father I’d look out for you, lass. Keep you safe. I’m sorry, Maddie-girl.”
“Sorry? For what? Are you hurt, or –” A shadow flickered in my peripheral vision and I flung myself to the left. Something long and dark carved a path through the space where my head had been a moment earlier. At this distance I could feel the power of the Art radiating from it like heat from a blast furnace. I ended up on my side, shoulder hard against the crates, half-turned toward Malloy. A tall, thin silhouette stood backlit above me - not by the weak lights of the cargo hold, but ringed with a visible nimbus of sheer power. He held something long and dark in his hand. His hair was a blond halo around his head.
“For this.” Malloy twisted toward me, his right hand leaving its place under his left side and rushing towards me. The butt of the pistol he clutched in it struck me in the right temple. I saw bright white light, then none at all.
TEN
I was wrong. There was a worse hangover cure than waking up in jail. It involved having one's wrists cuffed together and then being hung from a pipe by a rusty chain for a few hours. Give or take.
You've never had the pleasure ? Oh, you really must try it some time. There’s a funny thing about being held captive. Everyone is someone’s captive. The trick is knowing whose.
I would have liked very much to know whose captive I was right now . A bag of ice would have gone over nicely too, while I was making wishes. Someone had played a lullaby on my head with brass knuckles. Scratch that - on my entire body. I hurt all over. I must have made a sound because even before my eyes opened I heard an amused voice not far from me. "She wakes. So you've decided to rejoin us. How lovely." Her voice was low and dark, like good cigarettes drenched with honey, and it rang with power. I remembered that voice. The last time I'd heard it, someone had used my head for batting practice. With a crowbar.
I opened my eyes and regretted it. I was in a small room, about twenty feet on a side. One wall was of curved metal,
Similar Books
