The Candy Shop War
Page 2
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“I always do,” John said.
Fernando paused. “I hope you never come after me,” he said. “Just send me a postcard and I’ll turn myself in.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do they ever see you coming?”
“Rarely. Colson may be different. They’ll be on the lookout after tonight.”
“Happy hunting,” Fernando said with a two-fingered salute. “Watch your back.”
“Watch yours.”
Fernando climbed into the gray sedan and drove out of the parking lot. John entered the Buick, relieved as he cranked it up that the engine sounded healthier than the weathered exterior had led him to expect.
John followed the route on the map until he reached the outskirts of town, where buildings became scarce. Ridgeline Way wound around the shoulder of a hill, and his destination drew near. An abandoned quarry. Why was his work always taking him to abandoned quarries and deserted mines and seedy inner city bars? He needed a new occupation, a job that would entail extended visits to lazy tropical beaches and quaint woodland cottages.
Just over a mile from his destination, John pulled the Buick onto the shoulder of the road. If his targets were keeping a sharp lookout, they might have noticed the car heading up the road and seen the headlights go dark. Not probable, but he preferred to be ready for all contingencies.
Getting out of the car, John rummaged through the trunk, selecting gear. Handcuffs. Tear gas. A tranquilizer gun. A vial of neurotoxin. Four straitjackets. Among other things.
Taking a final peek at the map, John set off up the street. Another lonely road in the middle of the night. Not unsettling, except that it felt so familiar. Alone in the dark, he was at home.
His eyes adjusted until the moonlight seemed bright. The upkeep on the road was poor. Too many potholes. He reached an intersection where a dirt road branched out from Ridgeline. John stepped off the asphalt and paralleled the dirt road, treading silently through the brush, choosing a circuitous route in order to keep himself concealed.
After walking for several minutes, John peered into the quarry. Industry had transformed the side of the hill into a stony amphitheater. Below the chiseled cliffs sat a dilapidated school bus. John might have assumed it was derelict had he not known that Samson Wells had come to town earlier that evening. The rundown bus made for a shabby lair, but a lair nonetheless. Only a fool willingly entered the lair of a magician. But this lair was temporary—the defenses were limited. John would flush him out.
The guards posed a problem. Not unexpected, but still troublesome. John crept along the edge of the quarry until he ascertained that two guards stood watch, one at either end of the bus.
He would have to subdue them delicately. A sloppy attack would not suffice. John could not afford to seriously harm the guards, the consequence of an unusual condition he had dealt with for decades.
Due to a powerful curse placed on him years ago, John himself suffered any direct injury he inflicted on another. If he broke someone’s leg, his leg broke. If he knocked someone out, he went to sleep. If he killed a person, he would die. So finesse was always required.
One guard was tall and stocky, his face lightly pockmarked, his brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He held a wooden baseball bat. The other was a Vietnamese woman—young, short, and slim. No visible weapons. John had met Samson Wells once, and was generally familiar with his reputation, but had no idea what abilities these two apprentices might possess.
Ideally he would avoid finding out. Their positions at opposite ends of the bus kept them out of view from one another. If he disposed of one of them silently, he might overcome both without a fight.
The guy with the ponytail looked drowsy, so John opted to start with him. The school bus had come in along the dirt road and parked in a flat spot near the center of the old quarry. Boulders and rubble surrounded the bus on all sides, providing just enough cover for a stealthy approach. Staying low, moving when the man with the ponytail was looking in the wrong direction, John crept forward.
In some ways, the scarcity of decent cover was an advantage. To a less trained eye, the man with the ponytail appeared unassailable. John doubted whether his target could envision somebody successfully getting close.
John took his time, picking his moments, waiting to advance until a cloud dimmed the moonlight or the unsuspecting guard diverted his focus to pick at a hangnail. When John moved, he stayed low and silent, sometimes gliding quickly over the rocky terrain, sometimes inching forward with supreme patience. Eventually John crouched behind a meager rock pile less than fifteen feet from the man with the bat. It was the last decent piece of cover between himself and his target.
Picking up a pebble, John dropped it gently on a larger stone. The resultant sound was faint but suspicious. He heard the man approaching the rock pile, not with any urgency, just strolling over to take a closer look at what might have caused the unnatural click.
As the man came around the low rock pile to glance at the far side, John slunk in a crouch, keeping the rocks between them. Stepping quickly, John looped around and got behind the long-haired guard, who was only an inch or two shorter than John.
In one hand, John held a strip of duct tape. The adhesive side was extra sticky, and the opposite side was extra slick. From behind, John slapped the duct tape over the guard’s mouth with one hand while wrenching the baseball bat from his grasp with the other.
The startled guard whirled as John set the bat down. Making a low humming sound, the guard swung a fist at John, who intercepted the punch expertly and locked the man’s arm into a painful hold. Moving decisively, John grabbed the guard’s other arm and handcuffed his wrists together behind his back.
A third arm grew out of the center of the guard’s back and seized John by the throat. A fourth arm sprouted and tore away the remains of the guard’s flimsy T-shirt, then started trying to peel away the duct tape covering his mouth. The arms that were cuffed together fell to the rocky ground and a fresh pair of arms took their place.
With a chopping motion, John broke the guard’s hold on his throat and backed away. Shirtless, the guard now had six arms, two of which were clawing at the duct tape. The other four were clenched into fists.
John had not fought a Shedder in years. You didn’t see many these days. They could sprout and detach limbs at will, which made them almost impossible to grapple with.
Before John could regain his composure, he heard a whooshing sound. As he turned to look in the direction of the airy noise, a sharp blow to his midsection doubled him over, and a second blow sent him reeling backwards. He only barely managed to keep his feet.
Fernando paused. “I hope you never come after me,” he said. “Just send me a postcard and I’ll turn myself in.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do they ever see you coming?”
“Rarely. Colson may be different. They’ll be on the lookout after tonight.”
“Happy hunting,” Fernando said with a two-fingered salute. “Watch your back.”
“Watch yours.”
Fernando climbed into the gray sedan and drove out of the parking lot. John entered the Buick, relieved as he cranked it up that the engine sounded healthier than the weathered exterior had led him to expect.
John followed the route on the map until he reached the outskirts of town, where buildings became scarce. Ridgeline Way wound around the shoulder of a hill, and his destination drew near. An abandoned quarry. Why was his work always taking him to abandoned quarries and deserted mines and seedy inner city bars? He needed a new occupation, a job that would entail extended visits to lazy tropical beaches and quaint woodland cottages.
Just over a mile from his destination, John pulled the Buick onto the shoulder of the road. If his targets were keeping a sharp lookout, they might have noticed the car heading up the road and seen the headlights go dark. Not probable, but he preferred to be ready for all contingencies.
Getting out of the car, John rummaged through the trunk, selecting gear. Handcuffs. Tear gas. A tranquilizer gun. A vial of neurotoxin. Four straitjackets. Among other things.
Taking a final peek at the map, John set off up the street. Another lonely road in the middle of the night. Not unsettling, except that it felt so familiar. Alone in the dark, he was at home.
His eyes adjusted until the moonlight seemed bright. The upkeep on the road was poor. Too many potholes. He reached an intersection where a dirt road branched out from Ridgeline. John stepped off the asphalt and paralleled the dirt road, treading silently through the brush, choosing a circuitous route in order to keep himself concealed.
After walking for several minutes, John peered into the quarry. Industry had transformed the side of the hill into a stony amphitheater. Below the chiseled cliffs sat a dilapidated school bus. John might have assumed it was derelict had he not known that Samson Wells had come to town earlier that evening. The rundown bus made for a shabby lair, but a lair nonetheless. Only a fool willingly entered the lair of a magician. But this lair was temporary—the defenses were limited. John would flush him out.
The guards posed a problem. Not unexpected, but still troublesome. John crept along the edge of the quarry until he ascertained that two guards stood watch, one at either end of the bus.
He would have to subdue them delicately. A sloppy attack would not suffice. John could not afford to seriously harm the guards, the consequence of an unusual condition he had dealt with for decades.
Due to a powerful curse placed on him years ago, John himself suffered any direct injury he inflicted on another. If he broke someone’s leg, his leg broke. If he knocked someone out, he went to sleep. If he killed a person, he would die. So finesse was always required.
One guard was tall and stocky, his face lightly pockmarked, his brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He held a wooden baseball bat. The other was a Vietnamese woman—young, short, and slim. No visible weapons. John had met Samson Wells once, and was generally familiar with his reputation, but had no idea what abilities these two apprentices might possess.
Ideally he would avoid finding out. Their positions at opposite ends of the bus kept them out of view from one another. If he disposed of one of them silently, he might overcome both without a fight.
The guy with the ponytail looked drowsy, so John opted to start with him. The school bus had come in along the dirt road and parked in a flat spot near the center of the old quarry. Boulders and rubble surrounded the bus on all sides, providing just enough cover for a stealthy approach. Staying low, moving when the man with the ponytail was looking in the wrong direction, John crept forward.
In some ways, the scarcity of decent cover was an advantage. To a less trained eye, the man with the ponytail appeared unassailable. John doubted whether his target could envision somebody successfully getting close.
John took his time, picking his moments, waiting to advance until a cloud dimmed the moonlight or the unsuspecting guard diverted his focus to pick at a hangnail. When John moved, he stayed low and silent, sometimes gliding quickly over the rocky terrain, sometimes inching forward with supreme patience. Eventually John crouched behind a meager rock pile less than fifteen feet from the man with the bat. It was the last decent piece of cover between himself and his target.
Picking up a pebble, John dropped it gently on a larger stone. The resultant sound was faint but suspicious. He heard the man approaching the rock pile, not with any urgency, just strolling over to take a closer look at what might have caused the unnatural click.
As the man came around the low rock pile to glance at the far side, John slunk in a crouch, keeping the rocks between them. Stepping quickly, John looped around and got behind the long-haired guard, who was only an inch or two shorter than John.
In one hand, John held a strip of duct tape. The adhesive side was extra sticky, and the opposite side was extra slick. From behind, John slapped the duct tape over the guard’s mouth with one hand while wrenching the baseball bat from his grasp with the other.
The startled guard whirled as John set the bat down. Making a low humming sound, the guard swung a fist at John, who intercepted the punch expertly and locked the man’s arm into a painful hold. Moving decisively, John grabbed the guard’s other arm and handcuffed his wrists together behind his back.
A third arm grew out of the center of the guard’s back and seized John by the throat. A fourth arm sprouted and tore away the remains of the guard’s flimsy T-shirt, then started trying to peel away the duct tape covering his mouth. The arms that were cuffed together fell to the rocky ground and a fresh pair of arms took their place.
With a chopping motion, John broke the guard’s hold on his throat and backed away. Shirtless, the guard now had six arms, two of which were clawing at the duct tape. The other four were clenched into fists.
John had not fought a Shedder in years. You didn’t see many these days. They could sprout and detach limbs at will, which made them almost impossible to grapple with.
Before John could regain his composure, he heard a whooshing sound. As he turned to look in the direction of the airy noise, a sharp blow to his midsection doubled him over, and a second blow sent him reeling backwards. He only barely managed to keep his feet.
