* * *
I empty the rest of the magazine into Victor and even then he still comes at me, stumbling lifelessly, grinding his teeth so hard they shatter. I push him down the shaft before he collapses, watch his bulk plummet into darkness. I wait ten seconds for the squelching thud of Victor's landing, but the only thing to rise out of the black pit is a muggy breeze. Hardly even that, more a waft of sluggish air, the scent of which nags at my mind as something just beyond recall.
I go back to Chester's body. It took only one bullet with him. He died pretty quick, only a slight red stain on his vest, a little blood trickling from his mouth and congealing in his moustache. His face hasn't changed much, except perhaps to look even more pale and skeletal. That annoying grin remains even in death.
The keycard and car keys are in his jacket. His red comb slips out as I take them. I leave it where it falls. That's all I need from Chester. After freeing myself of the collar, I lift him easily over my shoulder and send him after Victor.
"See ya, friend.”
When I hid the money here, in this old mine, I left a gun too, never really expecting to need it. Of course, turning against Nendo does tend to make one a bit paranoid. I had assumed that I would use the gun, if I had to, against some of their hitters, and who knows? Maybe I did. Vic and Chester didn't fit the description of the average Nendo man, but perhaps the corp had sent them to put me off-guard. I thank Heaven I was so cautious.
I move toward the unearthed crate when I notice someone standing at the far edge of the lantern's light, motionless in the tunnel.
"Hello, Mr. Drake."
The pistol I hold is empty, the extra magazine in the crate. I haven't taken the time to replace it.
"I see you've taken a dislike to Victor and Chester. Too bad, they're a good team and I've come to rely on them. Perhaps too much. I must punish them for not bringing you all the way to meet me as planned."
I straighten. Vic and Chester are about as far past punishment as you can get.
"Who are you?" I ask, pointing the gun at him.
He moves forward, his fair features now evident. His face is clean-shaven and smooth; there’s no sign of facial hair, no sign of wrinkles. His full hair is coal black, combed back with excessive care. His eyes are hidden behind dark shades. He wears a pinstripe, like Chester, although in a darker hue of blue, almost black; a red rose protrudes from the chest pocket. He holds a hat in his hands.
"Come now, put that away, we both know it's empty." He motions his hat at the gun. His voice is smooth and even.
I glance down at the crate. I can have the gun loaded in two seconds and shoot him six times in one more. He is six meters away. The only thing to consider is the possibility that he’s armed.
On cue, he unbuttons his jacket and pulls a gun from his belt. "Step away from the crate, Mr. Drake," he orders.
I do, but also move away from the shaft. I do not drop my gun. Bill Ziebel moves forward, smiling. He's come for his money.
"You're quite an efficient killer, Mr. Drake.” Ziebel moves toward me, and closer to the shaft. “Much better than Victor or Chester."
"Obviously. You should spend a bit more money and hire real talent."
"What they lack in skill, Mr. Drake, they make up for in loyalty. Victor and Chester never question orders, never complain. But now, of course, you are quite a bit more intelligent then both of them. Perhaps they can learn something from you."
"They're dead," I say softly.
"Don't you know me yet, Mr. Drake?"
This is getting weird. I look down at the open crate, at the stacks of shining cash cards inside, and the ammo clip lying on top. If I lunge for it, with my heightened reflexes, I might be able to take him. Or not.
He blocks the tunnel to the mine exit. Behind me the darkness hides a maze of tunnels, how deep and how many I don't know. Maybe there's another way out.
"There's only one way out, Mr. Drake, and that's with me."
Sorry, pal, but that isn't likely.
"There's the money. It's what you came for, isn't it? Take it, it's yours."
"I am here for something, Mr. Drake, but it's not in that crate."
This guy is too far gone for me. The only thing of value here is that crate's contents.
And that twelve million isn't worth my life. I can always make more, much more. I won't be able to return to my old haunt, the Regional Atlanta Metroplex. L.A.? New York? Why not? It'll be like a wolf let loose on the lambs, the phoenix returning from the ashes.
Ziebel's still watching me, a half-smirk cuts across his perfect features. The style of his clothes, the part in his hair, the manicure: he's no match for an assassin like me. His pistol isn't a large caliber, and I give myself seven-to-three odds that I can take him. He'll shoot eventually anyway, and a delay on my part brings me only closer to my death.
"But Mr. Drake, you're already dead."
This guy is certifiable.
"Denial doesn't become you, Mr. Drake. I'm amazed you haven't discovered it earlier." He puts the gun away and buttons his jacket, now standing wide open to any attack. "Actually, you've been dead for quite some time and I must admit that I have been somewhat remiss in taking so long to collect you. My apologies."
Enough of this garbage. If he wants to play his little mind games that's fine with me, but I have games of my own. Much more lethal games.
I move, forcing every last gram of speed from my wires, crossing the distance between us in an instant. My fingers strike infallibly at his Adam's apple, delivering the fatal blow.
But he's not there. I stumble and nearly fall into the shaft. Catching myself, I spin low, scanning the cavern.
"Very well done, but you’re cybernetic augmentations won’t help you here." Ziebel stands next to the crate.
This time my speed surpasses even my own expectations and I don't bother with the niceties of a single attack. Three times I strike blows that would kill a neorhino. But each time I miss.
"That's quite enough, Mr. Drake." Ziebel is once again standing beside the shaft. He glances at his gold wristwatch. "I have other appointments. I cannot spend all afternoon watching you display your skills, considerable and impressive as they are."
I muster all my power and skill, and lunge. This time Ziebel does not disappear. This time he blocks each of my attacks with inhuman ease, and finally retaliates with a single open-palm strike to my sternum.
Impossibly, the blow sends me catapulting back against the wall. I sink to the dirt, limbs numb.
He removes his shades. Glowing eyes bore into me.
"It's over, Mr. Drake. You will be coming with me now." He waves his hat at me. I watch as the flesh on my hand pales and collapses, the meat muscles degrading, the metal muscles bulging through my sunken flesh. I feel my skin sagging over my subdermal armor, my tongue liquefying in my mouth. A great weight descends on my chest, a penetrating soreness spreads over my body.
This can't be happening. I'm Ross Drake. I can't be...dead. Not with twelve million and freedom so close.
Bill Ziebel comes up and puts his hand on my shoulder. "I'm afraid that you will never be free again." He shakes his head. Not in pity, but in pride.
I don't answer.
"Shall we go?" He lifts me up, and I stand swaying beside him.
I can't resist. My lifeless muscles respond only to Ziebel's will. We walk toward the shaft, the gleam from his eyes lighting the way, the fear in my chest burning like fire.