Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [152]
And there stood Flood in the black robes, in a room lit only by the flickering candles on the altar.
“What the fuck is . . . ?” He spun around to face me. He saw the double-barreled sawed-off leveled at his chest, and stopped. He glanced at Max and saw the warrior, now wearing the same black robes as Flood.
“Give me the passport,” I said, “and if your hands touch anything else you’re chopped meat.”
The Cobra reached slowly for his breast pocket, saying “Hey, look . . . man, look. I got it. It’s here. What’s going on . . . ?”
He placed the passport gently on my open palm. Flood stood watching—still as stone. I held the passport in one hand, slid my thumb inside and flipped it open to the first page. There was his picture—and MARTIN HOWARD WILSON in government lettering. A valid passport, just like he promised. I nodded to Flood and Max.
The Cobra stood with his hands at his sides, waiting to see if he’d passed the test. I prodded him forward with the scattergun until he was close enough to see the little red table. Close enough to see the metal spike with the dark wood handle wrapped in red silk. Close enough to see the picture of Sadie and Flower—to see his own photograph. Then he knew.
Max and I stepped back, away from him. I spoke to him in a calm voice—no more mystery. “Look, pal. It’s a job, you understand. This lady has a beef with you and she hired us to bring you here. Now it’s between you and her. We’re out of it. Only you don’t leave until it’s settled. That’s it.”
The Cobra stood there, staring straight ahead—his mouth was open, his breathing was bad. Then Flood spoke up, her voice thin and clear, without a tremor. “Martin Howard Wilson”—like a judge handing down a sentence—“you killed that child. Flower. Her people are dead. I am of the child’s blood and I want yours in payment—”
“What is this shit—”
“Shut up,” I told him, moving the shotgun for emphasis.
Flood went on as if nobody had spoken. “I will fight you. Now. In this room. On this ground. We fight to the death. Only one of us leaves this room. If you defeat me, you will be free to go.”
The Cobra looked at me. I nodded. “That’s the deal, pal. One of you leaves the room.”
“I beat this cunt and I leave? No problems?”
“No problems,” I said, and stepped back.
56
FLOOD BOWED TO Max, bowed to me, and turned to bow to the altar she had made. The Cobra unbuttoned his fatigue jacket with one hand, slowly, so as not to provoke me into blowing him away. He was wearing only a black T-shirt under the jacket, the butt of a small automatic protruded above his belt.
“Your choice,” I said, stepping slightly to my left. Max moved out of the line of fire.
The Cobra used only his thumb and index finger to pull it out—a nasty little .25-caliber Beretta, more than enough to do the job at close range. He held it by the butt and gently tossed it in my direction. It bounced off my thigh—my eyes never left him.
Still watching me, he knelt and unlaced his combat boots, took off his socks, put them on the floor. A look of profound disgust flashed across Max’s face.
I walked toward the Cobra: the scattergun backed him away until I was between him and the boots. A glance showed what I expected—a sheath stitched up one side of the boot, with the knife handle sticking out the top. I kicked the boots away and stepped back.
He looked over at me, giving it one last try. “Can I talk to you?”
I shook my head. He looked at Max’s face, saw his future, and turned to face his past.
Max and I faded back against the walls, leaving the Cobra and Flood alone on the deck. Flood shrugged her shoulders, causing the lovely silk robe to fall to the floor behind her. She faced the Cobra wearing a black jersey top with accordion folds in the shoulders over flowing white silk pants. Around her waist was a white sash, tied so that its tails revealed two black tips.
Flood flicked her foot and the discarded robe flew off the deck and came to rest against the altar. She spread her arms wide