Ray sprinted after Messer, but the hunchbacked ace had too much of a head start. He reached Bloat and sank his right arm to the elbow in Bloat’s slug-like side. He slashed, slicing a three-foot-long gash in the pulpy white flesh. Buckets of foul-smelling ichor pumped out of the wound. Bloat screamed. Ray gagged, but continued the pursuit.
Messer whirled and slashed at Ray, who turned with the grace of a ballet dancer, barely avoiding the blurred hand. Ray switched direction again and came in low, swiping at Messer’s legs. Messer scuttled backward like an angry crab, waving his arms in Ray’s face. Ray feinted a lunge. Messer buzzed him and Ray pulled back, circling.
“Let Messer kill the fat freak!” Battle shouted.
Without looking, Ray shot Battle the finger. He tried to sweep in low and knock Messer off his feet, but the ace was too fast. He chopped at Ray’s neck. Ray dropped back, barely in time, as Messer’s hand caressed his cheek that suddenly became covered by a sheet of blood.
Christ, Ray thought. How can I beat Messer without hurting Cameo? And then he had it. He didn’t have to beat Messer at all. He just had to beat the jacket.
He reached down for the knife sheathed at his ankle, drew it, and pointed it at Messer.
The ace tittered. “A knife? A knife against Mackie Messer?”
“Let’s dance, motherfucker,” Ray mumbled, his tongue probing the gaping wound in the side of his face.
He feinted a lunge. Messer chopped down with a blurred left arm. Ray went in over Messer’s arm and sliced the back of the jacket from the neck to the waist. Messer righted himself and took a sideswipe at Ray that missed.
They were still in close quarters. Ray punched Messer in the gut and the air rushed from Cameo’s lungs in an explosive gasp. But Messer still swung reflexively at Ray as he arched backward, and buzzed through the agent’s jaw and cheek. Blood blossomed from Ray’s face, saturating the front of his fighting suit. Ray growled inarticulately as Messer collapsed, holding his stomach with both arms. Cameo’s body wasn’t used to such abuse and it sagged with the pain of Ray’s blow.
Ray lunged forward again with the knife, slashing at the back of the jacket. It snagged momentarily, then cut through the leather. The jacket separated into two pieces and Messer suddenly seemed to realize what Ray was doing.
He screamed as Ray grabbed both halves of the jacket. Messer twisted and connected again, slicing through Ray’s rib cage, but Ray was already winding up and he was pissed and he suddenly didn’t care if it was Cameo’s body or not.
He whirled Messer by the jacket’s arms, hurling him into the chamber’s stone wall. Messer slammed into it with stunning force, bounced, and came back right into Ray’s arms. Cameo’s eyes were glazed as Ray ripped the jacket off her body and in a frenzy of strength tore it to bits before he threw it to the floor.
Her eyes fluttered for a moment and when she opened them again they were Cameo’s eyes, unaffected by the sadistic violence of Mackie Messer.
“You’re bleeding,” she said to Ray.
He looked down at his side. “Yeah,” he said. “I do that a lot.”
“Where’s the ambulance?” Tom wanted to know. His voice was edged with hysteria. “I called for an ambulance. We need to get her to a hospital, she needs help, a doctor, something —”
“Take it easy, mister,” the older cop said. He was a beefy man with a crooked nose and a mop of black hair. He pulled Tom aside while his partner went to check out the bedroom. “The parameds are on their way. Probably took a wrong turn in the fog. Nobody lives down this end of Hook Road.”
“She needs help!” Tom said. He was shocked at how shrill and crazy he sounded. He turned away, started to run his fingers through his hair, stopped when he saw the blood on his hands. What a sight he must be. He’d pulled on a pair of pants, but he was still bare-chested, still bloody where he’d cradled Danny, talking to her until he heard the sirens. No wonder the cops had looked at him funny.
“You told the dispatcher your name was Tom Tudbury,” the cop was saying. “Our records show that Mr. Tudbury died three years ago. Suppose you tell me who you really are, and what the hell you’re doing out here.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Tom said. “Just help her, okay? Where the fuck is that ambulance?”
The cop was about to say something else when his partner emerged from the bedroom. He was a fair-haired kid with freckles. He looked green. “You’d better take a look, Al,” was all he said.
Al went to look. His rookie partner stood by the bedroom door, staring at Tom. There was a strange light in his eyes. “What?” Tom said. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“You son of a bitch,” the kid said coldly. “You fucking butcher. Why’d you do it?”
Al reemerged with a grim look on his face. “Call it in,” he told his partner. “And get the coroner out here.”
“No,” Tom said. “She needs a doctor. She’s not dead, she can’t be dead, you don’t understand, she’s an ace, she has… she has powers … powers and …”
The two cops exchanged a look.
Tom couldn’t take it anymore. “NO!” he screamed.
The older cop was removing a set of handcuffs from his belt. “You have the right to remain silent,” he told Tom. “If you do not remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
Tom held his hands up in front of him, backed away, shaking his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “It wasn’t me. It was Bloat. Those bastards out on the Rox. The dogs. She said dogs … the Hunt … her sister was with the covert team… they’re all the same person, don’t you see?”
“You have the right to an attorney,” the cop continued as he started toward Tom, cuffs in hand. He grabbed him hard, spun him around, shoved him against the table. “If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you,” he said as he pulled Tom’s left aim behind his back, cuffed him, reached for the right
Modular Man’s leg was on the table.
He reacted without thinking, grabbing the leg by the ankle, wrenching free with a strength he didn’t know he had, spinning, swinging. There was a sharp crack as the leg smashed across the policeman’s temple. He staggered. Tom shoved him to the floor, jumped over him.
The kid cop had his gun clear of the holster. He swung it up, aimed it with both hands. “Freeze!” he yelled.
Tom froze. Then the kid blew clear off his feet, right back through the window. Glass exploded all around him. He landed on the porch. Tom ran right past him. The dogs were barking as he plunged into the labyrinth of the junkyard. After a moment he heard running footsteps, then curses. The fog was his ally. A warning shot echoed through the night. Then the sounds receded.
He was panting hard by the time he reached the shell.
“Traitor!” Battle cried.
Ray looked up to the balcony to see him pointing his rifle down at them.
“Twisted genes will always show,” Battle intoned.
“Fuck you and your genes,” Ray mumbled wearily.
“I guess I’ll just have to take care of this by myself,” Battle said, smiling gleefully and aiming his assault rifle at an again-comatose Bloat.
“I think not,” a new voice said, immediately capturing everyone’s attention. It was the Outcast. He was hurt and bleeding and obviously dead tired, yet he managed to stand without help. “Put down your weapon,” he told Battle.
Battle pouted as Herne snatched his rifle and turned it on the agent.