Before he could reach the kid, two of the others were on him. In a minute—a minute of leather gloves filled with coins and the sharp edge of flattened hands—Vince was stretched on the dirty carpet, his head bleeding.
Rafe stepped away from the bed, gave Vince a kick in the side of the head. He rolled, and the bleeding got worse.
“Real rough character,” Rafe said. “Real rough.”
“Look, kid, what the hell do you want with us? You've got our money, now why don't you beat it?” Terry's face had hardened, the scar at his mouth standing out in sharp white relief.
“We only got part of your money, pocho. You got a wallet too. I saw it, remember?” He stepped back to the bed, hand outstretched.
Terry reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, hung on the bedpost, and handed the boy his wallet. “Now scram, will you?”
“Rafe,” said one of the other boys, “I don't dig the way this cabrón talks to us.”
He stepped over and flat-handed Terry across the mouth, twice. The syndicate man's head snapped back, and cracked against the bedpost.
Vince made a mewling sound from the floor. He started to sit up. One of the boys moved toward him, stepping carefully, bringing his booted foot back for a vicious kick.
“Nix!” said Rafe. “Let him be.”
Vince got up, clutching his bleeding face, staggered to the big chair and fell into it. “Now,” said Rafe, “how about telling us who you are.”
Terry looked at Vince. The other assassin was doubled over in the chair, trying to stop the flow of blood with an initialed handkerchief. “W-we're two buyers from a company in Detroit—” he began, but Rafe cut him off.
“With guns? Nah, that don't figure—not even a little bit.”
Bubbling sounds came from Vince. “We're rough boys from the syndicate,” he mumbled, with sarcasm still coming through.
One of the other boys stumbled back against the closet door, clutching himself as he shook with laughter. “Oh, no! Dig them, will ya!” The others all laughed.
Abruptly, Terry felt the fear and humiliation that had come with these kids mount to a frenzy point. He had never been held down like this—not since he was a kid himself. And it wasn't going to happen now.
With one fluid movement he was off the bed, slamming into Rafe as hard as he could. The knife went into the air and he caught it on the fly, stepping back and dragging the boy in front of him.
It was a calculated move, and one that would have worked had Rafe not brought his booted foot down as hard as he could on Terry's instep.
The assassin howled, and Rafe spun around quickly, his hand darting out. Two straightened, stiff fingers, close together, went into Terry's windpipe, and the syndicate man's eyes went glazed.
He started to fall back, clawing at the air.
Rafe chopped again, and the knife dropped to the floor.
“You little punks!” Vince screamed, and was out of the chair, fists doubled, about to strike.
A boy moved in swiftly, tripped Vince as he started toward Rafe. Rafe picked up the knife.
Another boy whipped Vince's gun out of his pocket, leveled it. “You're more trouble than you're worth,” he said evenly. “Who gives a damn who you are!”
He fired once, carefully. The bullet caught Vince just below the collarbone, spun him hard. He dropped to his knees, and the boy fired again. The second bullet shattered Vince's right cheek. Rafe watched silently.
Vince spat twice, blood spilling down the front of his white button-down shirt. He moaned off-key, and pitched onto his face, twitching.
The boy fired again.
“You're making a helluva racket,” Rafe said slowly.
“Yeah, loud, ain't it?” the other boy answered.
“Now we'll have to check out,” Rafe said resignedly.
Terry stepped toward them, his eyes wide. “Vince...” he began. Rafe turned carefully, and thrust the knife into Terry's stomach.
The syndicate man settled onto the blade, then pitched sidewise with a muffled shriek. He slid off the blade, clutching his stomach, fell into a heap next to Vince.
“Like that, you should waste them,” Rafe explained to the boy with the gun.
“Not noisy like you done.” The other boy nodded his head solemnly.
They heard doors opening in the building, down the hall.
“Fire escape here,” one of the boys announced, opening a window. “Let's go!”
They began piling out the window, clanking down the fire escape and vanishing in the night. Rafe was the last to leave, the captain remaining on the bridge till the last moment. He thrust one leg over the sill, then stopped.
He turned his head and looked back into the room, at the carnage. It was starting to smell warm and nasty, like old, bad beer. There was a thumping from the hall and then something hit the door, bowed it slightly as someone tried to break in.
Rafe grinned down at the two bodies. Terry's eyes were open, staring past Rafe at the ceiling. The boy snapped the lock on his knife, breaking it smoothly and almost in the same motion sliding it back up his sleeve where a leather thong snugged it against his forearm.
“If I'd known you were so tough, I never woulda fucked with you,” he said, stepping out onto the fire escape and carefully closing the window.