Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [36]
Just like now.
No idea how long he was down.
But the split second the paralysis eased up, Hardie executed something that could only be described as a kind of breakdancing move—something half-remembered from his childhood in the early 1980s. He wasn’t going for style; he was trying to get up from the floor as quickly as possible.
But his move had the bonus effect of colliding with O’Neal’s hand, the one holding the heart-attack pen, which—
THWOK
—slammed down into his own thigh.
Shit!
Shit Shit Shit…
The shit took three or four seconds to absorb, and O’Neal yanked it back out after one, maybe two… maybe closer to one… but enough of the shot got into his system. Shit shit shit shit. He may even have hit a vein, which was seriously bad news. O’Neal dropped the pen and crab-walked backward, toward the sliding doors. Shit fuck shit fuck SHIT. There was only one thing he could do now. Get himself out to the van. Ignore the vise grip in the middle of his chest, the jolts of pain in his arm, the sudden feeling of impending FUCK THIS HURTS AND I AM GOING TO DIE.
Hardie meanwhile had no idea what the hell had just happened. He coughed—which hurt—and rolled over in time to see somebody crawling back into the house through the living room like a toddler on crack. Had his leg even connected with anything?
Doesn’t matter.
Get up.
There are probably more of these creepy assholes in the house. Get up and go find them.
Save the actress.
Save your family.
O’Neal didn’t know how many times he fell on the short walk from the front door to the van. Didn’t really care. He pumped his fists, trying to keep the blood flowing, and slammed them into his chest from time to time. He was a young man, kept himself healthy—fuck, he’d trekked to the North Pole not too long ago, and that was his idea of a relaxing vacation—but the toxin in his chest didn’t seem to care about any of that. It wanted him dead. Quick. That’s what it had been designed to do.
The only thing that would discourage the toxin was inside the van, already loaded in a syringe.
Things were simple now:
If O’Neal could get to it, he would live.
If not…
A.D. coughed. The acid vomit burned his throat. The pain in his legs was unbelievable. His stomach felt like it was twisted up in a knot. But he was alive. That’s all that mattered, right? He’d fallen off the top of a house and he was somehow still alive and he wanted to scream FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE at the top of his lungs.
Mann stood up. Opened her eyes experimentally. Some vision. Not all of it gone. Which was good. This was not over.
13
You’re muckin’ with a G here, pal!
—Sean Connery, The Untouchables
AFTER DEAD-BOLTING the front door, Hardie made his way downstairs for a hurried systematic search of the house—room by room, closet by closet, around corners, behind curtains. With each turn, Hardie was totally prepared for someone to pop out of a hiding space and try to stab him with something sharp. Which seemed to be the running theme this morning.
But there was nobody here.
Not even Lane Madden.
Hardie called out her name, experimentally, once he was sure none of the bad guys were still inside. Part of him wondered if she had been a mirage or a hallucination. Maybe all his drinking had finally caught up with him and he was seeing things. Instead of pink elephants, it was famous people.
Hardie knew that was ridiculous. She’d been here; he didn’t impale himself in the goddamned chest.
This could only mean that they’d already gotten her. Killed her, bagged her, put her in the van across the street. And the two guys who were inside were just cleaning up after themselves; Hardie had interrupted nothing more than their janitorial work. All those fake heroics. All for nothing. Another person was dead and Hardie had completely failed to stop it.
Worse than that—he’d failed the moment he opened the door. She’d begged him not