Cold Fire, page 14
‘Please don’t kill him,’ she said, beseeching the gunwoman directly, ‘we’re having a baby. Don’t hurt my baby’s daddy.’
It was too dim to tell if her words gave the woman pause, but they sure didn’t concern the giant. ‘I could give a goddamn for your baby or its daddy. He ruined my face and now I’m going to ruin his.’
‘No, please. There’s no need for you to hurt anyone. Don’t you see? Things have already gone way too far as it is.’
Tess wondered where the sisters had gone. They weren’t in the kitchen: maybe they’d fled with Joanne and led her somewhere safe from these people. For now the invaders were in contention with Tess and Po alone, and if her plan to win them some time worked then it would stay that way long enough for the others to escape; more importantly, time for Po to recover.
‘Where’s the girl? You’d better tell us, or—’ It was the woman who made the demand.
Her question had the affect of stalling the giant from aiming another stamp at Po. He twisted at the knees, his huge torso appearing to be fused at his hips, and his neck too short and thick to allow more movement than a few degrees to either side. The dim glow from outside sparked highlights in the whites of his eyes and on his bloodied teeth. ‘Damn it, Siobhan, the rat has gone and bucked out again.’
‘Fuck sake,’ responded the woman. ‘D’you mind not using my goddamn name in front of witnesses?’
‘Why are you concerned about them hearing our names, huh? The dead don’t carry tales. I was going to do a number on that asshole, but finding Joanne trumps that –’ he aimed a nod at Po – ‘so just shoot him and get it over. You got qualms about killing a pregnant woman, then give the gun to me and I’ll do them both.’
Siobhan shook her head at the instruction. The giant snorted and once more droplets of blood sprayed. He dashed his sleeve across his face, before turning away and heading for the door he’d initially smashed through. Outside, the tracks made by the trio of fleeing women should be easily followed.
Siobhan checked that Po was behaving, reminding him she was in control with a knock of her gun barrel alongside his ear. In the interim of the last few seconds, Tess saw that he’d gotten one foot under him so wasn’t as vulnerable as before when on all fours. For her part, she stayed crouching with her back to the kitchen counter, her arms down at her sides, offering no form of imminent threat to the gunwoman.
She said, ‘You shouldn’t do this, Siobhan. Think about what you’re about to do. You will be murdering in cold blood, Siobhan.’ Emphasizing the woman’s name was deliberate, to remind her that indeed there were witnesses to her crimes and that she couldn’t escape the consequences. Sure, she could shoot Tess and Po, but how could she be certain that one of the others hadn’t overheard the giant and that they wouldn’t escape to alert the authorities.
‘Be quiet you,’ Siobhan snapped. She scrubbed her fingers through her thick red hair, an unconscious act while thinking furiously for a satisfactory escape from her dilemma.
‘You don’t want to do this and you don’t have to,’ Tess asserted. ‘I can tell you’re not a murderer. Not like that other monster. Is he forcing you to do his bidding? Is that it? Do you need help to escape him, Siobhan?’
Siobhan turned the gun sharply on Tess. ‘I told you to be quiet, bitch. Now shut up or I’ll damn well shut you up for good.’
Tess averted her face, feigning fear, and not having to try too hard to be convincing. Siobhan wasn’t a natural murderer, but circumstances could force even a reluctant killer to pull the trigger out of desperation. ‘Please don’t shoot me. Don’t harm my baby.’
The gun was jerked at her once more, but then Siobhan exhaled in exasperation and she dropped the muzzle so that it touched Po’s head again. Siobhan’s attention remained on Tess a fraction longer.
Po had gained both feet. He thrust up, parrying the gun aside as he twisted out from under it. Siobhan snapped to attention, but it was too late to drop him cleanly. He wrapped a hand over hers and forced the gun aside and down. His other elbow caromed against the side of Siobhan’s skull. She was tough, though, and the situation added to her sense of self-preservation. She shook off the blow and twisted around the pistol, trying to get a bead on Po. He was still weakened from the beating given by the big man, but thankfully he was still stronger than Siobhan.
The gun fired. Splinters were blasted from the floor. Po shoved the gun further aside and it fired a second time. The bullet punched the ground between Tess’s running feet. It didn’t slow her charge to help Po. Her right hand, previously hidden in the darkness down by her side rose while Siobhan was unaware, so the redhead made no attempt to avoid the scalding coffee that Tess dashed from the thermos into her face. It was further seconds before the burning agony struck her. By then Po had wrenched around her hand and disarmed her of the pistol. His other hand, flat against her chest jammed her backwards against the kitchen wall as her two hands batted desperately at the liquid pouring down her. She screamed, the sound hellacious within the confines of the little house.
She could expect no pity from Tess. The bitch had threatened her life and therefore that of her unborn child. She had attempted to shoot Po dead too. Both were unforgivable crimes in her current state of mind. Tess grasped the woman’s mane of hair and dragged her chin down on to her swiftly rising knee. She wouldn’t see it as an act of mercy, but Siobhan was knocked unconscious, and spared any further torment from the scalding. Tess rolled the woman face down on the floor and twisted her arms up her back. She turned to check on Po. In the dimness she caught him kneading his throat with one hand.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘That sumbitch almost crushed the life outta me,’ he admitted. ‘Jeez, Tess, he threw me around like I was a bundle of rags.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s a brute, unnaturally strong.’
‘I almost had him, till that bitch cold-cocked me.’ His hand transferred to the sore spot at the base of his skull. It reminded him that he still clutched Siobhan’s liberated pistol in his other hand. He held it out, butt first, to Tess. She accepted it without comment. Po kicked around in the dimness seeking his knife. When he couldn’t find it, he straightened, gave a shudder and was ready to take up the battle. ‘You watch her, I’ll go stop that asshole.’
‘Take the gun,’ she said and went to hand it back.
‘You need it.’
‘You need it more than I do.’
‘Y’know I don’t mix well with guns.’
‘It’ll help if you have to face that brute again. Take it, Po.’
‘No. You use it. Make sure she doesn’t trouble you when she wakes up.’ He turned and moved quickly for the door. It was pointless arguing with him: he’d made up his mind and wouldn’t be swayed. He was no fool, but there were times when she wished he’d put aside his warrior’s sense of honor and instead of defeating his enemies by skill or force, he just pointed a gun at them and made them lie face down in the dirt. After all, she was yet to meet a bad guy willing to fight by the same rules of honor as Po.
TWENTY-THREE
Po had known worse days in his life but they’d been few.
There was the day his father died during a battle to defend his besmirched honor, after his best friend, Darius Chatard, stole his wife, but who’d sent out his adult sons to deal with the fallout. Po had avenged his dad’s murder but it ended with him incarcerated in Louisiana State Penitentiary, also known as Angola, and there were days inside that he’d rather forget. No less when another of the Chatard brothers tried avenging their slain sibling by stabbing out Po’s eyes with a shiv; Po carried the scars on his forearms to this day from defending his sight, before he was able to return the improvised knife to his would-be killer’s flesh. He’d been injured other times, once almost being gutted by a demented cartel enforcer, and on plenty of other occasions had taken contusions and broken bones, all in the service or defence of Tess, Pinky and others. He regretted the deaths of the Chatard brothers; in a fashion they were no different than he in fighting their fathers’ fight, so how could he hold on to any animosity? Besides, the old blood feud between Villeres and Chatards had been resolved several years ago after Po, Tess and the Chatards had united to save their abducted sister, Emilia.
Having his businesses targeted by arsonists had been hard to swallow and he’d thought that his classic Mustang being scorched was the icing on a crappy cake, but that was before having his ass kicked. He prided himself on being able to tussle with the toughest of men, and therefore be able to protect his friends and loved ones from harm. It was a crippling blow to his ego that the big man had throttled him with disdain. Sure, being cold-cocked from behind gave him ample excuse for not being on his best form, but nevertheless, he’d had his ass handed to him on a plate, and it didn’t sit well with him. Not one damn little piece.
Po could be a fatalist. But there were other times when he’d rage against the inevitable and go down fighting however poor his chances of victory. This was one of those times. He’d traveled there with Tess to collect Joanne and deliver her safely into the hands of her sister, Detective Ratcliffe. He was damned if he was going to allow a beating to stop him. Besides, he might have lost the battle, but the war was far from over. The fatalist in him told him he wouldn’t be happy until he’d gone at least another round with the hulk, hopefully this time with a clearer head than before.
He felt that the liberated pistol would’ve been wasted on him, because he wouldn’t shoot the big man. Not unless there was no other possible option. He’d have perhaps used his knife to nick him, maybe draw blood and smear some on his cheeks, before sheathing the blade and meeting the brute man-to-man, fist-to-fist. But that was moot now, because he hadn’t discovered where his blade had fallen before chasing after him into the heart of the blizzard.
Snowflakes adhered to Po’s eyelashes and they melted on his lips. They accumulated on his shoulders and hair and in the folds in his clothes. Po paid them no mind. He moved, keeping the tracks in his view but also shooting glances high and low and to either side, knowing that the brute could attack from anywhere. For now the huge tracks followed those of several smaller tracks out from the side of the house and towards some outbuildings built in the lea of the trees to the west. Between the house and outbuildings there was a fenced pasture, and Po assumed that the sisters kept horses for when they preferred a more sedate form of transportation than their noisy snowmobile. The horses, if in fact they existed, must have been stabled away from the storm. He wondered briefly if the sisters had led Joanne to the stable with the view of saddling up and skedaddling. No, the big man was too close on their heels for them to try escaping on horseback.
Po darted through the blizzard. He was sore. His spine ached and his throat felt as if it had been wrung out like a dishcloth. Breathing was difficult and his head throbbed with the cold. He wouldn’t allow his discomfort to slow him. If anything it galvanized him to regain what credibility the ass-kicking had recently stripped from him.
Ahead loomed one of the sheds. Its roof was peaked, the walls tall. Double doors sat open below a hatch through which a block and tackle could hoist grain and bales of hay on to a loft storage deck. Emanating from within the stable he expected to hear the whickering of nervous steeds, but if any horses were upset their vocalizations were being drowned out. The three women shouted and screeched and the deeper growl of the brute taunted them. Po didn’t slow for a beat, he kept running, his footfalls deadened by the thick white carpet. He slowed only on reaching the stable.
He could creep inside and cold-cock the hulk, but that wasn’t his way. He slipped inside the dim interior, seeking his target, even as he spotted, checked each woman’s location, and decided who was in the most imminent danger. The sisters shielded Joanne from the big man, one of them wielding a shovel and the other with a more practical weapon: a pitchfork. Neither farm implement deterred the man from dancing from foot to foot, arms outstretched in an arc wide enough to encompass the trio. Even as Po lunged forward, the big man swept the shovel aside and then immediately backhanded its bearer aside. The other sister jabbed at him with the fork, but she lacked determination and the man knew it. Her jabs fell short and he was undeterred. He snapped a hand on the shaft of the fork and wrenched it high. The sister – Felicity, Po believed – was hauled off her feet several feet into the air but refused to release her weapon. She was tossed aside with the fork and then the brute charged in, hands grabbing for Joanne.
Po dropped his shoulder and drove into the big man’s lower back, using his momentum and body weight to form a battering ram. It was possible that the giant would normally have withstood the attack easily, but he too was on the move and the impact forced him forward. Joanne ducked and he outreached his balance. Po continued to throw his weight into the man’s back, pushing with the power in his legs to keep him off balance. The probability that he’d regain his footing in seconds remained, but Po was determined not to allow even a split second’s respite. With his arms encircling the other’s waist, he threw a leg around the other man’s ankle, tripping him. The big man went down, slamming down on his chest. Po had the impression of the trio of women starbursting, each diving for clearance in different directions. He couldn’t spare them a fraction of a second more notice than that, and instead shifted so that he mounted the man’s back. He rained blows on the nape of his neck and ears. None of the strikes would end the fight, but they were designed to disorient and delay a counter attack. Po made claws of his fingertips and gouged at the man’s eyes.
The big man crawled to the nearest wall, used its rough planks to grasp at, and he pulled up to his feet. With an enraged bark he spun and tried slamming Po against the wall. A nail head gouged Po’s shoulder, but not deep enough to cause internal damage. He stuck tight, one arm looped about the man’s thick throat, riding him like a rodeo bull. Three times the man spun around, trying to dislodge Po, and then he went for broke again, throwing himself back against the wall, crushing and grinding. Po endured the torture and gave some in return. He stuck his thumb in the man’s right eye, probing deep with the calloused pad to pop the orb from the socket if possible. The big man screwed his eyelid tight, snarling as he chewed Po’s wrist with his slab-like teeth. He yanked at the arm around his throat, turned and tossed Po away. Po landed in an explosion of straw and dust.
He scrambled blindly, making distance between him and the heel that slammed an inch from the side of his head. Up on his feet once more, Po spun and bent at the waist, his legs spread wide, arms crossed before him. His opponent charged and rammed him backwards, driving him through the litter of loose straw towards the opposite side of the shed. In the darkness Po couldn’t see the wicked prongs of a thresher machine, but somehow sensed how close to impalement he was. He broke free and rolled, shoulder to heel and popped up several yards to the man’s left. He’d set his feet when the giant’s ham-sized fist pounded his sternum. His wind blasted between his teeth and Po emitted an animalistic croak as he gave ground. He’d fought big men before, but this guy’s power was something else. Po daren’t meet him dead on. He sidestepped and pivotted and returned fire: his fists peppered the big man’s head, and Po was certain that several of the punches had struck his broken nose. He again sensed danger, but this time it was for the big man’s sake. Po kicked, aiming for the side of the knee. He employed the tip of his elbow to whip in and strike the other’s ribs. A backhand slash of the arm sent Po dodging away and he placed an upright support column between them so his opponent couldn’t immediately get at him.
Snapping his head around, Po checked for the women. He couldn’t see them all. Only one of the sisters was in sight and she was an indistinct silhouette ducking behind a pile of stacked bales. For now the women were safe from their pursuer, but Po couldn’t let up for a moment to even catch his breath. He jerked one way, and then went the other and the grasping hands missed him. He kicked again, once more aiming for the weakest point above the side of the man’s knee. The man buckled, but didn’t fall. He spun, grabbing for something in the gloom, and Po was hard put to dodge the pitchfork that speared for his gut. A second time the fork jabbed for him, this time higher to take his throat: Po ducked. The fork was swept sideways. Po understood that the best form of defence was offence. He lunged within the arc of the shank and struck a blow to the man’s face. His knuckles felt satisfyingly snug over the mashed cartilage of his nose.
The pitchfork swung and this time Po couldn’t dart inside its range. He was forced to leap for safety, and his boots caught in something, a folded tarp or something like it. He stumbled and went down on all fours. His opponent chased him, stabbing with the tines at his lower back. Thankfully the same obstacle that had tripped Po also saved him. The big man’s feet got entangled and he also staggered. The pitchfork missed, sinking into the ground beside him. Po darted away.
He gasped for air. The fight must only be into its second minute but it had been taxing. He couldn’t compete with the giant’s strength, and already winded from their first encounter he would struggle to maintain the advantages of agility and speed.
His opponent had stalled. He too was feeling the strain of combat. He leaned on the fork, using it to support his weight. He gasped and coughed and then spat bloody saliva at his feet. Po could slip away. Avoiding further confrontation was the sensible thing to do. But Po wasn’t for retreating. His blood was up and his vision tinged with red. He stood his ground and beckoned the man into round three.
In the gloom, a spark of light flashed off the man’s teeth as he grinned in response and straightened. He wrenched the fork out of the ground’s embrace and held it across his chest. He was too savvy to allow him to outreach himself again, and to lose balance. He began a slow tread forward and Po matched his steps. With a wordless shout the man lunged, stabbing for Po, but Po was also on the move. He leapt and caught at the floor of the loft overhead and drew his knees tight to his chest. He kicked out with his heels and scored with both. He jumped clear before the fork’s trajectory could be altered. The tines stabbed the air Po had just vacated. Po landed beyond the man and he kept moving, scooping up the shovel dropped earlier by one of the sisters. He span, parrying as the prongs were again driven to impale him.
