Theaella

20

Not That Fight

Vincent’s lips twitched. “Are you sure this is a fight you want to start?”

“I’m not starting a fight,” Matthew said. “I’m here to finish one.”

The others chuckled again. Their hands remained by their ledgers in full view, signaling to Vincent, the alpha dog, that they were confident to leave this to him.

“What fight is that, friend?” Vincent said.

“The one you started with Jack Merriweather.”

Vincent tilted back in his chair. Withdrew his hand from beneath the table. Rested a Browning P-35 on top of his ledger, keeping his hand firm on the grip. The barrel pointed at Matthew. It seemed the Hi-Power was the gun du jour for money-laundering assholes.

“Jack is a friend, is he?” Vincent smiled, enjoying himself. “Good. Then you tell him this. What I did to his cousin Grant? The electrical cables. The clamps. Those sensitive areas of the flesh. It will pale in comparison to what we will do when we catch up to him.”

The others followed Vincent’s lead, matching his grin at the pledge of violence. His gaze remained on Matthew, unbroken.

“You’re a fawn,” Vincent said, “who just wandered into the lion’s den.”

“I understand you think that,” Matthew said. “And your track record has given you good reason to believe that you’re scary. You’ve got the look down. The manicured tough-guy beard. The handiwork carved into your skin. But I want you to do something. Look at me. Look at me closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

The phones persisted, insistent and abrasive, a xylophone being Whac-A-Moled. Vincent glared at Matthew. Then he shoved back his chair abruptly and rose.

Matthew stood motionless.

Vincent stalked around the table, waving the Browning. “You walk in here tonight. A night when I have business.” At this he jabbed the pistol at the one-way window and the cafeteria beyond. Through the walls Matthew could make out the sound of countless feet stomping the bleachers in unison. “And you come here on behalf of someone who sought to f**k with my business?”

Wisely he kept a distance from Matthew, regarding him over the top of the Browning. It was tilted sideways, gangsta style, the muzzle aimed just above Matthew’s left shoulder. “Clearly you don’t know my name,” Vincent said. “Clearly you didn’t do your research.” His hand tensed around the grip. “Because if you think you stand any chance of walking out of this room alive—”

All at once there was a hole in his forehead.

An awareness dawned in his eyes that a round had passed through his skull, that he was already dead. The ARES was steady in Matthew’s hand, the sights still lined on the trajectory of the Speer Gold Dot hollow-point round, his gun frame parallel with Vincent’s still-raised Browning. Matthew’s parted shirt fluttered, and then the buttons found one another again with a metallic clink, hiding the empty holster.

Vincent gurgled blood, a powdering across the lips.

Matthew reached out and grasped the canted Browning as he fell away.

Raffi was caught stunned, beer lifted mid-sip, but Serj and Yeznig were already drawing.

Matthew spun the Browning around in his right hand, catching it upside down with his thumb jammed inside the trigger guard. He made a split-second adjustment to aim both pistols and fired simultaneously, shooting Serj through the mouth and catching Yeznig in the breast.

In a room filled with gunmen, a still target is a dead target. But Matthew was already moving. A spin kick brought him within range as he let his foot fly above the table and hammer the raised bottle into Raffi’s face. Raffi toppled back in his chair, an arc of shattered teeth and glass tracing his descent.

Too late Matthew saw that Yeznig had twisted away from the round so it had caught his torso in glancing fashion, tearing free a hunk of flesh and fabric.

With a roar he flipped the table over at Matthew, phones, ledgers, and espresso flying. Matthew ducked down and in, letting it twirl overhead and getting off shots to Yeznig’s shin, knee, and gut before it all crashed onto the floor behind him.

Yeznig groaned, clawing at the glimmering hole in his abdomen, his pistol out of reach.

Before Matthew could pivot, Raffi charged him, his face awash in blood. He struck Matthew in a football tackle, crushing the RoamZone against Matthew’s thigh. Despite its Gorilla Glass and hardened black rubber casing, the phone crunched as he fell.

Raffi swung blindly, a rage-fueled battering. The Browning flew from Matthew’s grasp. He tried to angle the ARES, but they were at too close quarters for him to risk firing. Raffi overpowered him, fighting his gun hand down and then swatting the ARES away.

They grappled on the floor, close enough to kiss, arms locked, teeth bared. Raffi’s shattered face was inches above Matthew’s, dripping blood. From the corner of his eye, Matthew sensed Yeznig dragging himself toward his gun.

Matthew relaxed his arms, relenting. As Raffi’s weight came down on him, Matthew twisted away. Swinging around Raffi’s torso like a wrestler and seizing him in an arm bar, Matthew braced the elbow joint with his legs. But the limb was sheathed with muscle; it was like trying to snap a log.

Straining against the arm, Matthew leaned back to shoot a glance behind him. Still short of his fallen pistol, Yeznig expired with a shuddering wheeze. One of the phones miraculously had managed to stay plugged in, and it rang, rang, rang, earsplittingly shrill.

Raffi was too strong, bucking and ripping his arm free before Matthew could break the joint.

Matthew rolled onto his back, already reaching for his belt. With a single jerk, he whipped it free of the loops. Popping onto his feet, he fed the leather end through the buckle. Raffi was on his stomach, gathering himself to rise when Matthew slung the makeshift noose over his neck.