Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (8 page)

Still, tranquilizer darts were a good alternative to .45 or 9 mil rounds. Tranquilizer darts meant they wanted me alive. Maybe they intended to torture me. Probably intended to kill me … eventually. Still, that meant I had a little while longer to breathe and a little while longer to try and finagle a way out of this shit-storm.

I slumped forward in my chair, letting my eyes drift close, feigning unconsciousness, as two of the gunmen approached with zip-tie hand restraints. They’d probably shot me full of enough tranquilizers to subdue a small elephant. They should’ve used more. The Vis grants me a far greater resilience to debilitating and intoxicating substances—unfortunately, including alcohol—so it takes a whole lot more to put me down. These tranqs would undoubtedly affect my system in a big way, but instead of knocking me out cold in thirty seconds it might take as long as ten minutes. Ten minutes to get the hell away and find a place to pass out safely.

Sounded like a frat rush challenge.

Though I might have been able to handle Morse and his boys outright, it would’ve been a risky endeavor: close quarters, surrounded and outgunned, and they’d shot me with friggin’ tranquilizers for Pete’s sake. Heck, even if I took out Morse and his boys, I couldn’t possibly leave through the front—must’ve been thirty bikers in the main bar and most of them would be packing. I know bad odds when I see them and I wasn’t feeling real lucky at the moment.

I wasn’t completely up a creek, however. I still had the concussive wave of force which I’d channeled and constructed while Morse and I had played our last hand. Could only use that once though, so I had to make it count. With the front door out, I’d have to go out the back—even if it meant I had to
make
a back door. I pumped more energy into the construct, supercharging the working until all that accumulated energy made my head want to explode like an over-pressured boiler. More and more until I couldn’t hold the power in anymore.

A barrage of raw force jolted out as the first gunmen placed his hands on me.

The construct rolled out of me with an accompanying flash of angry green light. Chairs flew end over end and guards tumbled through the air like scattered bowling pins. They’d be okay in a few minutes. The far wall—connecting to the parking lot—couldn’t say the same thing.

Pieces of brick, concrete, and cheap red wood paneling flew outward in a confetti blast of rubble. The resultant sound wave was like the blast of a small-scale building detonation. What was left of the thick concrete looked like someone had taken an industrial wrecking ball to it. Precisely what my construct had been: a giant wrecking ball of channeled Vis.

I jerked the darts from my neck, stumbled to my feet, and shambled through the opening I’d punched into the rear of building, crouching down to hide my head and neck from any possible suppressive gunfire.

The sound of smashing wood followed me through the new emergency exit—the regulars in the main bar must’ve broken through the reinforced door to the back. Gunshots erupted from behind me, the roar of muzzle blasts shockingly loud in the night, while the whine of incoming bullets sent a wave of goose flesh running up and over my spine. I felt an impact under my right shoulder blade—my coat prevented the bullet from penetrating, but the impact hurt like a bitch and threw me off balance.

I managed to keep upright and moving in something that vaguely resembled a run. After about fifty feet, however, I found myself settling into a shuffling gait as my legs started to go numb.

I tried to draw up a reflective shield, but I might as well have been trying to fly away for all the good it did. I was already losing touch with my well of power—I tried to reach out and embrace the Vis. It was like a thick layer of molasses sat between me and my life sustaining force. I didn’t have long then, and I didn’t have access to much by way of defensive or offensive constructs. What I needed was a place to hide.

Once I broke clear of the infernal open parking lot, I hobbled into a narrow alleyway nestled between two large, run-down brick buildings—abandoned office spaces.

Everything felt so heavy, my legs and arms weighed about a thousand pounds each. Surely someone must have dropped a pickup truck onto my chest—no matter how hard my lungs labored, there wasn’t enough air. I ducked down behind a metal dumpster, drawing my gun as I waited for my pursuers to close the distance. The alley was as good a defensive position as any. Decent concealment and a narrow opening, coupled with the trash bin, meant I’d have a nice shot at any approaching targets, while they’d have a terrible shot at me.

Can’t ask for more than that.

Men hollering: someone—probably Morse—bellowing out orders. The orders were a bunch of incoherent jumbled gibberish to my drug rattled brain, but the general gist of the language was clear: get him without prejudice. Several bikers approached the alley mouth, mere silhouettes backed by the rough lighting of the parking lot. They had guns drawn and would start firing as soon as they got a bead on me.

I lifted my revolver with herculean effort and popped off a few rounds toward my assailants. Sometimes the best defense is a good offense—that’s especially true if you’ve been shot with tranquilizers and only have about four minutes of consciousness remaining to your name. Defense is for people with time and I didn’t have any. My first shot went wildly high—my colossal gun raising of its own accord—while the second careened into the building, sending a sizable shower of brick chips at the gunmen.

Damn, I couldn’t even hit three goons, from thirty feet, in a narrow alleyway. They must have dosed me with a friggin’ dump-truck load of tranqs—way more than I’d originally thought. It hadn’t been more than three minutes and already I was losing significant motor dexterity; my hands felt like I had on a pair of oversized, stuffed mittens.

Running probably hadn’t helped either. All that physical effort only served to move the toxin throughout my body more quickly. Nothing I could do about that. What would be, would be, I reminded myself. My shooting may have been terrible and far from lethal, but apparently it was enough to cause my burly, leather-clad pursuers to halt and seek shelter. I was up and moving again, even if more slowly and with a greater degree of instability—a drunk after far too many drinks. Several times I found myself supported only by the alley walls.

I soldiered on and eventually cleared the alley, lumbering down the sidewalk for all of five feet before a hammer blow of searing force ripped into my left cheek—and I’m not talking about my smiling face. Someone had shot me right in the ass.

Out maneuvered, flanked by another group of bikers. The attack hadn’t come from behind me, but from the sidewalk running perpendicular to the alley, in front of the office buildings.

I fell. Hard. The rough concrete of the sidewalk rushed up to greet me like an old acquaintance who’d been long out of touch. When that sidewalk and I embraced, it felt like I’d been sucker-punched by every woman I’ve ever done wrong. Another flash of angry pain seared across my chin as it bit into the pavement below, though that pain paled significantly in comparison to the bullet wound in my posterior. The wind rushed out of me, which might have been a result of either the fall or the gunshot. I couldn’t tell since everything
hurt so damn much.

I was bleeding, face down on the sidewalk, and about to pass out from tranquilizers, yet still I pointed my gun in the general direction of my assailants. I pulled the trigger twice, blasting a few more rounds, which brought about a satisfying cry of pain and an enthusiastic chorus of swearing. Sounded like I might’ve gotten a lucky shot in, which didn’t mean much since I didn’t have the energy to get up or pull the trigger again. My gun clattered to the sidewalk beside me.

I lay there for what felt like a long and painful ice age, horrible tension building as I waited for Morse’s boys to finish the job. What a crap way to go out—plugged by a couple of low-level biker goons. Damn. I always thought it would be some dark godling, or maybe a Fairy queen, or, hell, even a ninja Rakshasa. I’ve even envisioned being trampled to death by a rampaging elephant, while playing the blues.

But capped by some Rube thugs while I was stuck drooling on a sidewalk with a bullet hole in my ass? No sir, never envisioned that. Undignified I tell you. Naturally, I should have expected something like this. I get no respect, no respect at all.

After a full minute, I got impatient—what in the world was taking these clowns so long? They could at least try and be professionals about this.

I craned my neck around, trying to get eyes on the goons. Instead, I saw the slick black Land Rover on black-rimmed 22s tearing down the block, automatic weapons sticking out from every window.

TEN:

Lucky Break

The shooting started about ten feet from me. The night air resounded with the
crack-hiss
of AKs, followed by the angry hum of rapid fire Uzi’s. Bullets of various calibers chewed into the asphalt and concrete, glass shattered in sheets, car alarms sent up a cry. The crazy thing was that most of the bullets appeared to be aimed
behind
me, aimed at the bikers who’d been pursuing me. That’s not to say a few strays didn’t come my way, but it was clear that I wasn’t the target.

Whoever these guys were, they probably thought I was already dead. I couldn’t blame them for their faulty assumption. I certainly felt
dead and from a certain perspective I probably looked the part. I heard a lot of shouting, followed by a substantial quantity of return gunfire, but the sounds were all starting to blend together, to blur and soften, taking on a certain fuzzy white-noise quality.

I read the license plate on the Land Rover as it zoomed by: 16KINGS1. Ha. How about that—instead of trying to kill me, Cesar Yraeta’s crew was laying down suppressive automatic weapons fire, pinning my assailants in place, affording me the opportunity to escape. They were saving me, even if the act was unintentional. If Morse had been tracking my car, it stood to reason that the 16
th
Street Kings would’ve been doing the same thing.

They’d probably tailed me to The Full House, figured I was
going to bring some retribution toward the Kings, and decided a little preemptive action was the best course. Yraeta’s boys must’ve thought a good defense is a good offense too. Oh the irony of ironies—the Kings’ bad intel had actually saved me, had given me a chance to escape. Finally, something that resembled a providential break, something as rare and glorious as a rainbow-farting-unicorn.

Except I couldn’t move.

God must have one heck of a sense of humor. Just wish I wasn’t always the butt of the joke. I needed to act, needed to move, otherwise Morse and his thugs would find me. It wouldn’t be difficult since I was lying in plain view on a sidewalk three minutes from their front door. Dammit, this was not how I was going out!

Mustering my flagging will, I pushed through the thick layer of sludgy syrup separating me from the Vis, from the power I needed to save myself. The resistance was tremendous, both repelling my attempts to work through to the power beneath and exhausting me further from the effort. This wasn’t molasses, it was a friggin’ prehistoric tar pit, and it was about to swallow me like some ancient and unfortunate T-Rex. If I gave up now it would be the end for me, someone would
roll by—whether Saints or Kings—and put a bullet in my noggin, just to be on the safe side. So I pushed, focusing my will into a drill, boring deeper and deeper into myself. Drawing on strength of conviction, resolution, hope, and anger.

A
lot
of anger.

“This is not the way I die!” I shouted through numb lips. Spittle darkened the sidewalk beneath me like the splatter of fat raindrops.

A trickle of power, a flow no greater than a leaky faucet, the merest pinprick of energy.

By God, I’d gotten through—manhandled my way past the drug-induced haze clouding my mind. I didn’t have access to much power, but I did have access to
enough
power. Drawing upon the earth, calling up the strength and resilience of ancient rock and man-made stone, I insulated myself in the stubbornness of dirt and bedrock. I wrapped that power about my mind like a cloak, blocking away the screaming pain in my body.

This was a dangerous thing to do, but not nearly as dangerous as staying where I was. Utilizing raw elemental strength and force to block pain is not
the same thing as healing
an injury—healing takes a crazy amount of power and time, not to mention some serious grade-A talent. This particular Vis application is a quick and dirty bit of business that allows me to push my body well beyond its natural capabilities and tolerances.

Though that may sound great, it’s important to remember that pain, though not pleasant, serves a highly beneficial purpose. Pain is a warning sign that things are not okay in your body, a flashing signal which says:
STOP, decease, go no further, turn back idiot
. You ignore the warning signal of serious pain at your own peril, risking permanent damage if you push too
far passed your limits.

The way I figured it, a fatal head wound counted as long-term permanent damage, so the risk was appropriate.

With that bedrock strength in me, I gained my feet—if only barely—and stumbled into a slow, lurching stride. My numb limbs carried me across the two-lane street running in front of the abandoned office buildings and onto an intersecting road, which would take me away from The Full House. By the time I limped across the intersection, my vision had become decidedly narrow—black crept in steadily around the edges until all I could see was a thin swatch of sidewalk in front of me.