The King(33)

And the Scribe Virgin help him, he was itching to off the last of the trio who had arrived with such alacrity. He wanted to discharge a bullet into the man’s gut and watch him writhe and suffer on the driveway. He wanted to stand over the dying and breathe in the scent of the fresh blood and the pain. Then he wanted to kick the corpse when it was over. Maybe light it on fire.
But Ehric was right. Whom would he question then?
“Retain him,” he ordered, nodding to the remaining human male.
Ehric’s brother was more than happy to oblige, stepping in and craning an arm around that thick neck. With a vicious crank, he bent the man backward.
Assail closed the distance to his prey, taking a puff from his Cuban and exhaling it into the bodyguard’s face. “I should like to gain entrance into that garage.” He pointed to the outbuilding, thinking mayhap they had her in there. “You are going to make that happen. Either because you supply the key or because my associate uses your head as a battering ram.”
“I don’t fucking know! What the fuck! Fuck!” Or something to that effect. The words were strangled.
Such crude language. Then again, given the Cro-Magnon cast of that brow ridge, one could assume one was dealing with very little in terms of higher reasoning.
It was easy to ignore all the babbling. “Now, will we be using a key or garage opener … or some portion of your anatomy?”
“I don’t fucking know!”
Well, I have the answer to that, Assail thought.
Turning his cigar around, he regarded its glowing orange tip for a moment. Then he moved closer and put that hot spot a thin inch away from the man’s cheek.
Assail smiled. “’Tis a good thing my associate is holding you so tight. One jerk the wrong way and…”
He pressed the embers into the man’s skin. Immediately, a scream pealed into the night, flushing an animal from the undergrowth, ringing in Assail’s ears until they stung.
Assail retracted his cigar. “Shall we attempt a reply again? Do you wish to use a key? Or something else?”
The muffled answer was as unintelligible as the scent of burned meat upon the air was clear. “More oxygen,” Assail murmured to his cousin. “So he may communicate, please.”
When Ehric’s brother relented, the man’s answer exploded out of his mouth. “Opener. Visor. Passenger side.”
“Help this man retrieve it for me, would you.”
Ehric’s brother was as gentle as a hammer to a nail head, dragging his captive around with no regard as to where the contours of the car were—in fact, it appeared as though he were using the man’s body to test the structural integrity of the hood and engine block.
But the opener was procured and offered by a shaking hand—and Assail knew better than to put the thing to use. Booby traps were something he was very familiar with, and far better for someone other than him to do the triggering.
“Oblige for me, will you?”
Ehric’s twin shoved the man toward the garage, keeping his gun within inches of the side of his head. There was rather a lot of tripping and falling, but missteps aside, the bodyguard did manage to get within range.
The man’s hands were trembling so badly it took him several tries to depress the correct button, but soon enough two of the four doors were rising up. And what do you know, that sedan’s headlights were flashing right into them.
Nothing. Just a Bentley Flying Spur on one side and a Rolls-Royce Ghost on the other.
Cursing, Assail strode toward the building. Undoubtedly, some kind of silent alarm was going off, but he was not overly worried about it. The first round of cavalry had already arrived. There was going to be a lull before a second squad came.
The construction had two stories, and given its thermal-pane windows and historically inaccurate proportions, one could only assume it had been built in the current century. And stepping into the bay on the left, he was not surprised that everything was spotless, the concrete floor painted pale gray, the walls smooth as Sheetrock and white as paper. There were no lawn care apparatuses therein, no mowers, or weeders, or rakes. Undoubtedly there was a service for that kind of thing, and one wouldn’t want that sort of dirty, smelly equipment around one’s automotive babies.
As he moved quickly out of the direct lighting, the treads of his boots called his footfalls out sharply, the sounds echoing around. There didn’t appear to be a lower level. And upstairs, there was nothing but a small office that was used to store off-season tires, tonneau covers, and other automobile accoutrements.
Heading back to ground level, Assail walked out of the place at a fast clip. Approaching the bodyguard, he could feel his fangs descend, his own hands shake, his mind hum in a way that made him think of cars roaring down the Autobahn. “Where is she?”