This would be easier. I didn’t particularly care about this round of clowns, nor did I need them alive. I grabbed the one with the shot thigh, wrapped a sleeve over his mouth, and dragged as he twitched and tried to scream, in muffled gurgling squeaks.
I whacked him in the skull, grabbed a cable tie from my pocket to attach him to a corner of the railing on the forest side, and went for the others.
The second one’s guts were peppered with 6.5mm shot. He moaned rather than screamed, and I dragged him to his buddy, but placed him an entire railing length away.
The third one had a shattered ankle, and after two kicks and a whimper, he passed out and wet himself in a muffled trickle. Yeah, I bet it hurt. Well, so did the remains of my finger, so prong him.
Number Four was near dead. Five had been stunned and was upright and scared but decided to put up a fight when I got close. I let the fist hit me, rolled aside and caught his elbow, hooked his wrist in my elbow and bent. It didn’t shatter, but it did throw him to the ground. I kicked him hard in the kidney, balls and anus, then in the solar plexus as he thrashed and twitched over. Then I just grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged.
Four of the five were mostly conscious, all wounded, and mentally stunned from the fight. They’d started with sixteen-to-one odds and now I had the upper hand.
Number Four was pretty well gone, but he still might save a couple of his buddies.
I looked at his hemorrhaged, concussed eyes and asked, “Who hired you?”
I gave him a three count, as he tried to track and follow me, then reached down and punched the knife into his throat. He gurgled, his legs frog-kicked, and he died in a spilling pool of blood.
Number Five was not the boss, and had put up a crappy fight. I walked over to him and repeated the same question in the same dispassionate monotone. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know! I really don’t know!”
“Who does?”
“Him! Krensky knows!” He wiggled his hands and pointed with his chin.
“Thank you,” I said, and sliced his throat out with a swift flick. He gurgled and sighed and gargled and strained, then died.
“Krensky, I don’t need to kill you all. I do need the information. It’s all up to you.”
He couldn’t talk fast enough. His voice was animated and high as he said, “Dark-haired goz, mid-thirties, very fit. Roll of cash, some bullion.”
“Where?”
“Inn Seven, north side, room twenty-three.”
“When?”
“Monday.” Today was Thursday. That was pretty fast.
“How much?”
“Five thousand each.”
Eighty thousand to do me in. I was flattered. That might be ten percent of what he had left.
“Instructions?”
“He said where you were staying. Called when you were on the road.”
“Instructions?” I repeated.
“Uh, hold you for him, kill you if we couldn’t. Said to shoot first and bandage later.”
Good to see he still respected my abilities, and kept his ego out of his wits. Yes, broken or dead was the only way he’d get me.
“When did you last talk to him? With that phone?” I indicated the flat unit static-stuck to his belt.
“Yes, take it. About three hours ago.”
It was good he could be reasonable. It also wasn’t going to save him, because I couldn’t have him blabbing to Randall, nor to the cops. I also wanted to dissuade any competitors from taking the job. I reached down and took the phone.
Then I stood, hacked, stepped over, hacked, stepped and hacked again. The last one almost got a scream out before I reached him, and he did a most amusing dance considering his hands were lashed at ground level.
That done, I detached the sheath from my coat, slide the knife in, I gingerly reached into my pocket with three fingers, drew out a bag and dropped the sheathed knife into it. I made my way back to the car with a couple of staggers. Silver had the trunk open, and I tossed the knife into the disposal bag. She’d scavenged several pistols and a rifle as well.
“You drive,” I said, and made my way to the passenger seat. I collapsed in a heap on a polymer tarp she’d thoughtfully laid out. Once down, I reached for the touchpad and reclined.
She tidied up, climbed in, and we pulled out.
As she turned onto the road, she said, “That’s quite a pool of gore for a good guy.” Her voice was flat, but I caught the moral jab in it.
What brought that on? “Hey, they tried to kill me first, for no ethics other than money, so prong you.”
“And you were as cold and heartless as they.”
“I’m chasing a killer.” It had to be reaction stress from the fight. She’d done well, but it was her first firefight. Well-prepared, but it’s always a shock.