Plugged - Eoin Colfer [83]
That’s good enough. ‘Good enough,’ I say.
I withdraw the stiletto, and a rivulet of blood flows down Mike’s neck, pooling in the cup of his sternum. He sponges it with a shirtsleeve.
‘This is not good for me. Making deals. If word gets out that this asshole tried to blackmail Irish Mike Madden and got off with a beating . . .’
He doesn’t need to say any more. That kind of rumour could be disastrous. A wave of welshers and con artists would rise up in the morning.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say soothingly. ‘One word from Zeb and I will deliver him to you myself.’
One of Mike’s men is not taking this negotiation well. His face is drawn tight with outrage. I know the type, a bully with a gun. This guy is going to be whispering in Mike’s ear how I have to die. Soon as I’m out the door, his jaw starts flapping.
I look him in the eye and wince.
‘You got something wrong with your face, McEvoy? You in pain?’
‘Not me,’ I say, and shatter his kneecap with my heel. It’s a funny thing to see a leg bend the wrong way. Not funny haha. The guy goes down sideways, like a black-and-white movie drunk, snapping off shots as he goes. One hits his partner, the Scotland/Ireland guy, in the gluteus maximus. He drops to his knees, gasping.
‘Go, Dan,’ coughs Zeb. ‘Just kill them all. We’d be better off in the long run.’
I put Irish Mike between me and the shooter in the other room, who can’t do much except holler. But then another muscle man, the driver, comes barrelling in the back door. This throws me off altogether. Presumably this guy was out for the count, but now he’s obviously awake and pissed. How pissed?
Without saying a word, the guy shoots Zeb in the shoulder. Suppressor on the pistol too. Classy.
‘Scheherazade,’ blurts Zeb as he falls backwards in the chair. As far as I know, Scheherazade is a character from Arabian Nights, and I have no idea why Zeb would say this. Maybe I misheard.
While I’m thinking about this, Irish Mike spins and demonstrates why he’s the boss, unleashing a massive uppercut that takes me squarely under the chin. My feet actually leave the ground, then I’m on the floor, my head between Zeb’s knees and the stiletto six feet away.
Stars are blinking before my eyes and it’s all over. Two seconds, maybe three.
‘Neck punch,’ shouts Mike, eyes bright with triumph. ‘How’d you like that, laddie? You had it coming. Fuck you and fuck you again.’
What was I thinking? This was never going to end well; too many unknowns. My unbelievable winning streak had to peter out sometime. A pity it had to be with my head between Zeb’s legs.
My ears are wet with the sticky flow of Zeb’s blood and something clicked when I took the blow. My jaw? A couple of teeth? The pain is too big to pinpoint its origin.
Be nice to have a flashback now, hear some inspirational music, turn into a super soldier.
‘Your head is on my balls, man,’ complains Zeb, who isn’t dead yet. ‘That’s embarrassing. I don’t want to be found like this.’
Me neither. I don’t want to be found at all.
The clinic is whirling and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. I smell blood, sweat, maybe urine . . .
‘Zeb. You piss yourself?’
‘Screw you. I’ve been in this chair for ever.’
How can we be bantering like this in the face of oblivion? Is this the most important thing after all? Communication?
We lie in a tangle of limbs, like discarded mannequins ready for the bonfire, and I feel certain that this is what Mike has in mind. One little inferno and all the evidence goes away.
I crane my neck, relieving the pressure on Zeb’s testicles, and looking into my friend’s eyes. I have to know, before I die.
‘What the hell is Scheherazade, man?’
‘That just came out. It’s a safe word,’ says Zeb shamefacedly. ‘Sometimes the S and M hookers ask for a safe word in case things get a bit out of hand. I wouldn’t even be telling you this if we weren’t about to die and I wasn’t riding the painkiller wave.’
Christ. A safe word. They don’t work outside of cathouses or Dungeons and Dragons.
My breathing seems loud and there