Black Trump by George R. R. Martin
"How are we going to get him loose? We don't have much time."
"You're the detective," Mark said. "Pick the lock or something."
Muttering seditiously, Ditmar bent down to examine the handcuffs.
The door opened and Layton walked in.
Mark hastily put his hands together behind his back. Layton stopped and blinked at him.
"Hey! What's he doin' here?" He glared at Ditmar, who straightened, dusting invisible lint from his shirtfront. "Aren't you supposed to be fucking his daughter?"
"Ja, ja," "Ditmar" said, waddling forward with his fat face wreathed in a comradely smile. "But I'm all done. Und I felt zo bad you got cheated I vas just comink to look for you."
He laid a hand on the kickboxer's shoulder. "It's your turn now."
Layton made a face. "Shit! I don't want her if she's all cut up and shit."
"No, no. I zaved dot. Ve do it later, maybe togezzer?" He was urging Layton toward the door. As he did, his forefinger stretched, narrowed, hardened.
Layton turned a suspicious frown back at him. "Say, you don't sound like - "
The fast-motion growth of the finger caught the corner of his eye. "Shit!" he exclaimed. He lashed out with a back kick that launched "Ditmar" across the room and against the wall.
Mark, who had expected about this turn of events, had slipped a hand down into his back pocket. Now he whipped out the Makarov.
He had always doubted he could bring himself to shoot a firearm at another human being. That was an odd scruple, he knew, given that as JJ Flash he had incinerated people. But he didn't like guns.
But now he had no problem. He pointed that stubby little Soviet handgun at the kickboxer and blazed away.
Unfortunately, he wasn't too clear on aiming. Layton dropped. The nine-millimeter bullets blew craters in the whitewashed cement wall and ricocheted around the room, whining like lost souls. Sascha yipped and rolled off the table, almost wrenching his arm out of the socket.
With frightening speed Layton rolled forward, swept Mark's feet out from under him with a long leg. Mark bounced off a chair and landed badly, but kept his grip on the Makarov. He tried to point it at Layton, but the kick-boxer was already on his feet again. He skipped forward as Mark's hand came on line, snapped the weapon from his hand with a crescent kick.
Layton grinned down at Mark. "Now we get to play," he said.
"Ditmar's" bulk landed square in the middle of his back. "But first, you valtz mit me!" Creighton shrilled in his hideous accent.
Without hesitation Layton gave Creighton an elbow in the eye. The shapeshifting ace squawked and fell on Ditmar's broad bum.
The momentary distraction was all Mark needed. He was on his feet and out the door, running for the lab with elbows pumping and all the speed in his long gangling legs.
"Jesus, Meadows, don't run out on us!" he heard Creighton yell. The cry was punctuated by a nasty thump and a groan.
Mark just ran. Gotta get to the lab, he thought. Got to get my drugs.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
It would seem Lord Tung's associates gave good paper.
Good enough to get them past Chinese customs at Guangzhou airport. Good enough to get the delivery truck waved through the chain link fence that enclosed the perimeter. Good enough to convince the bored and inattentive guard at the loading dock to admit them to the complex.
And then just when Jay was starting to figure maybe this was going to be a piece of ricecake, they'd come up against some asshole who actually gave a shit.
The Chinese lieutenant sat behind the security desk going over their documents with a fine-tooth comb. He didn't look the least bit inscrutable to Jay. In fact he looked hostile, verging on angry, and the way he kept holding up every requisition form and bill of lading to the light was making Jay squirm. The collar of Jay's lab coat was damp with sweat, and his horn-rimmed geek glasses kept slipping down his nose, spoiling the effect of his wonderful disguise. It wasn't as snazzy as a Domino's uniform, but it had gotten them this far, that and the paper and the computer monitors in cartons on the dollys behind him.
The Chinese lieutenant handed a bill of lading to the sergeant beside him, who began to check it against the numbers on his clipboard, running a thick finger down a column of figures. Jay would have loved to pop the suspicious son of a bitch off to some tollbooth on the Jersey Turnpike, only there were two privates with guns across the room watching their every move, and behind them a heavy steel door that looked extremely locked. The red eye of a security camera stared down from the ceiling.
The sergeant gave the bill of lading back to the lieutenant. The lieutenant asked Belew a rude question in Cantonese. Belew answered brusquely in the same language. Jay wished he understood what they were saying. His command of Chinese was limited to no tickee, no washee and that was probably Mandarin anyway. The lieutenant waved the paper in Belew's face and rattled off more Cantonese. Belew shouted something back. The lieutenant stood up, waved his arms, and shouted louder.
Jay pushed the horn-rims back up with the index finger of his right hand, just to get ready.
The lieutenant snapped an order. Orders sound the same in any language. One of the privates crossed the room and started to rip open the computer cartons. The lieutenant sat back down and picked up the telephone on the desk. "Casaday," he said.
Jay didn't need a translator for that. He dropped his finger. The lieutenant vanished with a pop. Before the phone hit the desk, Jay was whirling. The private by the door blinked out as he was bringing up his gun. The private by the cartons started to shout until two of Lord Tung's thugs grabbed him. Then he got very docile very fast. The sergeant kicked over his chair and fumbled for his pistol. Belew knocked the gun from his hand and slammed him back against the wall.
Jay saw the sergeant's eyes. He stepped closer and shoved his popping finger up into sarges right nostril. "Translate this," he told Belew. "Open the door, or else."
J. Bob did the honors, and all of a sudden the room smelled like an outhouse. As ace powers went. Jay's was almost harmless, but it often terrified those unfamiliar with it. When you see people suddenly cease to exist and you don't know that they have simultaneously reappeared on the pitcher's mound at Ebbets Field, it does tend to loosen the sphincter. The Chinese sergeant gibbered at Belew wildly. "He says only the lieutenant knew the combination."
"You believe him?"
"I can smell his sincerity. The bowels don't lie."
Alarm klaxons went off suddenly all around them. Jay jumped a foot. "Swell," he said, looking at Belew. "What's Cantonese for The shit has hit the fan?"
"Break out the guns," Belew ordered over the scream of the klaxons. One of Lord Tung's boys shoved the private to the floor. The others started opening cartons and smashing computer monitors. Glass flew everywhere.
Belew released the sergeant and crossed the room. He ripped the cover off the keypad beside the door. Then he put his pinky into his mouth and bit it off at the second knuckle. He spat the finger onto the floor and shoved the bloody stump into the wiring. Electricity arced and Jay caught a whiff of burning flesh. He felt his stomach lurch. Locks whirred, clicked, disengaged; the steel door slid open.
Behind them, Lord Tung's boys were pulling machine pistols out of the computer casings. Jay popped their captives to Times Square while Belew removed his bloody finger from the keypad. One of his associates tossed him a gun. He caught it in the air, checked the action, and looked at Jay. "Jay, do you want - "
"No," Jay said sharply. He'd been over this ground with Belew before. "My finger never jams, I don't have to reload it, and it's a lot quieter than your toys."
"I don't think quiet is an issue at this point, but suit yourself." Belew stepped through the door. Jay was right behind him. Corridors stretched off in three directions, and there was an elevator door to their left. There were no guards yet, but lots of guys in lab coats were peering out doors looking alarmed. Belew fired a burst into the ceiling and they looked a lot more alarme
Jay took the stairs two at a time. The klaxons were still hooting. They sounded a lot like the klaxons on Governor's Island. He tried to not think about that, considering how well that had come out. Two guards were running toward him when he burst out on the lower level. They raised their guns, but Jay raised his finger faster. He started jogging down the corridor, opening doors. He peeked into toilets, storerooms, laboratories, libraries, and lounges. Every time he saw a face, he popped it off to this little noodle place he knew on Mott Street. The more people he got rid of, the fewer would be left to sneak up on him from behind. Besides, the noodle place needed the business.
Halfway down the corridor, he heard shouting from around the corner. English shouting. Hard on its heels came a staccato burst or gunfire. Jay ran.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Down the echoing cement hall to the lab. Somewhere a klaxon began its mechanical-goose honk of distress. Mark yanked open the door and practically fell into the lab, wheezing, looking as if he were trying to take bites of badly-needed air with his big horse teeth.
Made it, he thought, bracing arms on a table for support. His lungs were fire, his legs water. Just let me catch my breath and everything'll be all right ...
A flicker in his peripheral vision, and something rang the side of his head like a bell.
Mark reeled. Or maybe the world was spinning around him. Blackness seemed to flash in his skull, and his vision contracted to a point. The warning horns had somehow gotten into his skull ...
Focus widened like a ripple from a stone dropped in a pool. The surrounding blue gave way to Layton, standing light on his feet in the lab, grinning at him.
"You tried to run out on me, Doc," the young man said with a big grin. "You didn't think I'd waste time farting with those two numbnuts back there, did you? The guards can take care of them."
Lithe as a figure skater he spun. Stiffened, his right leg swept back and up and around. The heel slammed into the side of Mark's neck and sent him sprawling, with great purple afterimage balloons exploding behind his eyes, as if somebody had popped a photoflash in his face.
The best part of that particular kick was that he never felt the impact when he hit the floor, light as a feather ...
He rolled over and began to crawl doggedly toward his workstation at the rear of the lab. The whole right side of his face was Novocain numb. He only noticed his nose was bleeding when he paused a moment to rest - so hard to move! - and noticed the red drops falling to the floor from his upper lip.
He felt himself lifted by the back of his work shirt. As if he were a child, Layton hoisted him onto his feet, let him sway a moment while he transferred his grip to the front of Mark's shirt. Then he drove a short black-gloved punch in under Mark's ribs.
Mark doubled. All the air exploded out of him. His eyes bugged out with the urgency of expelling more air than he had in him. It was the pulmonary equivalent of the dry heaves.
Layton straightened him right up with a rising elbow-smash to the face. "You know, Doctor," the kickboxer said, "I was real disappointed when Casaday ripped me off about that little girl of yours."
He gut-punched him again, this time keeping a grip so Mark couldn't fold or fall to the floor. "I don't do disappointment real well, Doctor. I used to be fucking light-heavyweight champion. I get what I want." For punctuation he slammed a backfist into Mark's temple and sent him flying.
Mark tried to gather himself. Some reptile-brain tropism made him turn and crawl, as by blind instinct, toward the back of the lab, toward his drugs. If they hadn't found them yet.
A flurry of footsteps, a thundering impact in the side, a spear of pain as Layton's kick broke ribs. Mark curled moaning about himself.
Move, damn you! JJ Flash urged from the depths of him. Don't give up!
Don't listen to him! came Cosmic Traveler's panicky rebuttal. You tried it your way, and now see what you've done! Give in - tell him about the Overtrump, everything. It's our only chance -
That did it. Mark made himself straighten out, though it felt as if his body was encased in ice interpenetrated with his own nerve-ends, so that when he moved and broke his brittle coating, he felt the pain of that, too. He got onto elbows and knees and crawled.
From some Olympian height he heard Layton's laugh. "That's it, Doc. Crawl like a fuckin' bug." He grabbed Mark's shirt, dragged him upright again.
"You look like a big old daddy bndegs," Layton said. "I used to pull the legs off those little fuckers for fun, when I was a kid."
He hit him then, both hands alternating, maybe half a dozen times bam-bam-bam, a machine-gun burst of blows to the face. Mark staggered back. Layton did a little skip, side-kicked Mark in the chest. Mark back-pedaled, slammed against the desk. He put his hand down for support, felt pain from his palm - a minor pain but penetrating, slicing through the raw red throb of agony that was his whole existence.
He looked down. For a moment his vision refused to focus. When it did he saw he had dropped his hand amid glass fragments from an imploded computer monitor.
Layton came and placed himself before Mark. He smiled at him, then jumped straight into the air. His right foot lashed out in a high kick that snapped Mark's teeth together and his head back and made sparks fly from his brain like an anvil.
Mark dropped. One arm flopped lifelessly beneath the desk.
And the fingertips encountered cool smoothness.
By enormous effort he turned the hand over, felt. Something firm yet giving, like flour. Felt through plastic. Further exploration suggested composite lumpinesses.
Layton stood above him admiring his handiwork. "Well," he said, "it's been real, Doc. But I think I'm going to finish beating you to death, and then find out just what happened to that hot-pants daughter of yours. Looks like her date with that creepy Kraut slob didn't work out ..."
Mark burrowed under the desk. He grabbed the plastic bag, tore at it with fingers that seemed to be swollen like balloon animals and have too may joints.
What are you doing now? Trav wailed. You haven't had a chance to test it! You don't even know what's there, much less if its pure -
He had gotten a bad batch of chemicals before. The result had been Monster, a horned horror seven stories tall, who sported a six-foot hard-on for the world and squeezed lightnings from his fists. Monster's sole purpose for existence was to spread the true gospel of Main Pain.
But then, Sprout was away, and safe. Creighton and Sascha, if they were still alive, would have to look out for themselves.
And beyond that, it was only Made and the bad guys.
"Come on out, Doc," Layton said. "You can't get away that easy," He grabbed Mark by the belt and started hauling him out.
Mark smiled a ghastly red-rimmed smile. Then he tore open the pouches and crammed random powders into his mouth.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The first thing they teach you in detective school is never, never, never go running blindly into rooms where people are screaming in pain. Jay poked his head through me door cautiously, his finger ready.
A young blond guy with black gloves and a ponytail was hauling a broken scarecrow out from under a steel desk. The scarecrow was licking something off his fingers. His mouth was bloody and crusted with white powder. The guy with the ponytail had him by the leg.
Jay would have known the scarecrow anywhere.
"Mark," he said, stepping into the room, and hoping that Ponytail would let go of Mark's leg so Jay could pop him off. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
Ponytail let go of Mark Meadows all right, but he moved too fast for Jay to get a bead, in a whirling, leaping spin that ended when he planted a foot deep in Jay's solar plexus. The breath went out of him in a rush and Jay doubled over, trying to point. Ponytail scream
The lab seemed to be spinning. There was a rushing sound, a roaring of vast winds. Jay closed his eyes, opened them again. Light was flashing all around him, strobing painfully. Either he'd died and gone to disco hell or Pony-tail had hit him really hard, Jay thought as he tried to roll under a lab bench.
Then he heard Ponytail mutter, "What the fuck?" Jay blinked and tried to focus through the pain. That was when he realized there was a tornado in the lab.
It was black as the twister that had swept Dorothy off to Oz, alive with strange lightnings, howling, sweeping up papers and cigarette butts and small items of glassware. Overhead, the fluorescent lights started to blow up, one by one, until only the ragged strobe of the lightning remained to light the darkness. Petri dishes and test tubes were cracking to pieces, and a computer monitor imploded with a crunch. Ponytail spun at every sound. The darkness seemed to shiver. The world became a negative of itself. The tornado was a shrieking white wind full of dark splotches. Ponytail grabbed on to a lab table.
In the eye of the storm stood a tall man, glowing black, alive with energy. He raised his arms and threw his head back as the lightnings stabbed at him, feeding him. For a second Jay thought it was Mark Meadows, but the face was younger, smoother, beardless. The man's skin was translucent, and Jay could see the bones inside him glowing like neon, and the ghostly play of muscles. Sparks danced through his long hair. He was laughing.
One of Mark's friends, Jay thought wildly, but which one? Something wasn't right here. He'd seen Mark transform on Takis, but it had never been anything like this.
The laughing man seemed to drink the storm. The winds died and all of a sudden the world and Jay's stomach turned rightside out again. White was white, black was black, the wind was gone, the room was dark, and Jay's face hurt like a son of a bitch. He grabbed the edge of the lab bench and tried to pull himself to his feet. "Mark?" he said uncertainly.