“Ouch,” the Brick muttered, attitude channelling bored. His eyes, however, told Jack otherwise.
“You lot are pathetic. What, you thought you could trade off Melbourne for this dumb, walking/talking board game? You’re nothing more than goons, canon-fodder to improve our killing skills.”
“Sonuvabitch…” The Brick glared, quickly raising his giant mitt to strike again. Jack stopped him.
“He must have an insider,” he said.
“He must?” The Brick looked confused.
“Someone here. Someone to help — remember how disorienting it can be, when people first arrive in Heropa?”
“True,” Jack’s teammate agreed.
“Plus, he needs a private stomping ground to lay low, stock weapons, whatever. Somebody is helping him. We want names, places.”
“Why the fuck do you reckon I’ll tell you anything?” piped up their man tied to the chair.
The Brick glowered at him. “Don’t see anyone talkin’ yer way. D’you?”
“Besides,” Jack threw in, “we have a little bartering tool called the Brick’s fist.” He glanced at his teammate, who now beamed. “Well, maybe not the fist per se — we don’t want to kill him,” Jack changed his mind. “A bit of open-hand surgery instead.”
“Oh, goodie-me. Fun.”
The Brick used just two fingers, one wave left, one wave right. Thereafter, blood gushed from a broken nose and a couple of shattered teeth spilled to the carpet.
Jack winced. This looked real enough. “Okay. Let’s start with who you are.”
The loser folded quickly.
“Yeah, name’s Colt. Denny Colt,” he mumbled, pronunciation now a little off. “MCD Services, registration number 01042011 back in Melbourne. I’m staying at the Hobart Arms, on Franklin Avenue near North Kenmore Avenue.”
“That’s the spirit. Who’s your point person here?”
“Fuck you.” The Brick flexed his fingers, and Colt winced. “I don’t care one way or the other.” The Brick formed a fist. “Please don’t hit me again!”
“Aw, gee. After all this is over I’ll send you a crying-towel size no-prize — that way mebbe you’ll forgive us while you wipe yer baby blues. Fair ‘nuff? The name, bozo.”
“Donald Wright.”
“Wright? The newspaper head-honcho?” Jack’s teammate glanced at him. “Bloke behind the Port Phillip Patriot.”
“I know. Blando or a Cape?”
“I thought Blando — tho’ I’m beginnin’ to realize it’s easy t’get one’s wires crossed. How d’we even know this bastard’s on the level? Mebbe it’s a red hernia.”
“Herring,” Jack said. “And maybe you’re right. Why don’t you have some more fun with his face, Brick?”
“No, no!” Colt cried, writhing inside his ropes. “Wright is the bloke we report to! Honest! Swear to God!”
“Yer not convincin’ us, dickwad.”
That was precisely when they heard a faint noise from the next room, the sound of metal on concrete. At the same moment, their prisoner’s expression switched to crafty.
“What…What time is it?” he quizzed, gazing at the flattened red hat on the floor. The Brick had obviously stepped on it.
“Oh, you’ll like this,” the Equalizer announced, cracking rocky fingers. “Ding-dong — time t’do the Mussolini head kick. Why? Expectin’ an audience?”
“Just him.” Colt nodded past them. “You turds might wanna meet our self-styled Cape,” he yammered through broken teeth, a red mouth, and much unnecessary laughter, “something we call the Kapitän ‘cos of all the Kraut munitions. Perfect timing, Dolan.”
While nowhere near as fast as Pretty Amazonia, Jack did get the split-second chance to look over his shoulder.
He thereby glimpsed a tall figure in the shadows by the open door, took in the black Kerberos Panzer Cop-style body armour — its varying angles, abundant grooves, detailing and perfect symmetry — that completely covered this person’s body, dolled up with four Model 24 Stielhandgranate ‘Potato Masher’ stick grenades, a Luger pistol in a holster, an antenna, backpack, metallic gasmask with breathing tube, a German World War II army helmet, and glowing red eyes.
While he or she carried no kitchen sink, there was a huge piece of hardware in the newcomer’s hands, some kind of demented machine gun well over a metre in length, with an endless belt of cartridges attached.
The man formerly in the red hat had taken to sniggering. “Dolan and I swap turns carting this stuff round. I get to sit it out today. Lovely. Say hello to the good Kapitän’s 1,200 rounds-per-minute 7.9mm Maschinengewehr 42.”