Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [60]
“I told you, you fuck, I don’t have women murdered except on special occasions.”
“But somebody does, and those two women were tied to you. Maybe the other three were too. Just like it was your guys who got killed—they all come back to you. And the same guy killed Nanune.”
Vinaldi got as far as asking who the hell Nanune was when the bleeper on the desk sounded again, louder and more urgently this time. He turned furiously: “Jesus, there’s four of you here—can’t one of you answer it?” Then he turned back to me, and I saw his not inconsiderable intelligence trying to sift through what I’d just said. Maybe he’d come up with an answer. I hoped so. Perhaps he could let me in on it. “So who—?”
A rustling sound. Not heard, but sensed. In my head, as it had been in the elevator. Neck going cold, I whirled my head to look out the glass, suddenly understanding what I’d noticed through the wall out of the corner of my eye.
“He’s here,” I said.
“Boss,” shouted the guy at the desk. “Something’s getting fucked up out there.” I had time for a sliver of déjà vu and then everything went ballistic. Jaz and the others scrambled for their cannons amidst a blizzard of swearing.
“Who’s here?” Vinaldi asked me, confused, but I didn’t have to answer because the door was opened and the question was answered.
The man with the blue lights in his head.
He calmly shut the door behind him and fired. Jaz spun away, hit in the arm. The other hoods forgot all their training and stared at the man in the doorway, hypnotized by the flashing blue lights.
“Hey, Johnny,” the man said, leveling his gun at Vinaldi. “Looking good. Remember me?”
For the first time in maybe his entire life, Johnny Vinaldi looked utterly dumbfounded. He stared at the man, brow creased, seemingly unaware of the laser sight on his forehead.
“Shutdown,” the man with the blue lights said as he pulled the trigger, and I did something completely unexpected. Unthinkingly bracing my heels against the heavy chair I was sitting in, I launched myself at Vinaldi, smashing into his chair and knocking the pair of us across the floor. The bullet whistled through the air just above us, Vinaldi’s eyes still locked on the man with the lights.
The man appeared to notice me for the first time, and laughed delightedly in recognition. “Hey, Jack’s here, too,” he said merrily, meanwhile holding his gun to the side to shoot Vinaldi’s second henchman. “What a happy coincidence. There’s people who are really pissed at you. You and I got stuff to talk about.”
I felt otherwise, and lunged toward the table, carelessly knocking it over and sending my gun skittering toward the wall. Johnny had regained his composure and was reaching for his own weapon, but it was all far too slow.
The door was kicked open and five of Vinaldi’s men swarmed in—the guys who’d come for me at Howie’s place. The man with the blue lights leapt out of their way like a gymnast, and again I heard a rustling sound at the back of my mind like spiders walking on leaves. But mainly I heard the sound of gunfire as everyone fired at one another at once. I swiped my gun up from the floor, keeping my head below the level of the sofa.
I don’t like enclosed spaces too much. I turned and fired straight at the glass wall.
The result was nothing like the shattering in Howie’s place. That was just straight glass. This window had electronics built into it, and fractured with a grinding folding scream. A jagged sheet broke out of it, tumbling down into the room and revealing the sweating dancers beyond.
I grabbed the overturned table and yanked it onto its side, crawling quickly toward the hole in the glass, flinching against the impacts I expected to come. Everyone seemed to be too busy trying to kill someone else. Vinaldi was crouched by the wall, behind the body of a fallen bodyguard, firing into the melee by the door.