Invasion from Uranus (3 page)

As news of this brutal slaughter was made public, every country in the world wisely put their bakeries on emergency status and began stockpiling lemon cream pies.

The rest of the sad story is history.

With an expression of horror, the Sound Effects man was frantically tapping on the thick glass partition, but Nick glibly ignored him.

"As for this next tale," the author crooned melodiously, stroking his moustache. "I was watching a splendid
film noire
movie on television one night, when I started to wonder what Sam Spade, or Mike Hammer would have done if they ever meet real evil, like, oh, Satan? A few hours later, I had an answer...."

I like to kill.

It started as a feeling when I was a kid, then became an obsession and finally my line of work. Why fight nature? There was a lot of money out there, and I wanted all of it. So I went with my natural talents. Besides, I really like to kill.

But this night the hit was going weird. Everything had been jake when I got the word through my usual contacts that there was a client looking for some wet work. I still preferred the term murder, but the market wanted to be PC, I used wet work. Stupid term, murder wasn't wet, it was hot. Hot guns, hot screams. Murder was hot.

The client had my fee, the bills were legit, and after giving me an ID on the target he started wasting my time telling me why the target deserved to get croaked. I had to laugh. Who gives a damn? Pay me enough, I'll ace the pope. A job was a job. For some reason this impressed the Hell out of him and he promised me lots of additional work if I got this one right. The implied insult made me want to use my gun and slap the teeth out of his solicitous face, but as my brother always said, most folks were idiots, so why fight nature? True words.

After a few more minutes of assurances and mutual threats, we parted company and I grabbed a cab. The target was only across town. Easy pie. I'd be home in time for nachos and The Tonight Show.

Leaving the cab a few blocks from my destination, I paused to light my pipe and smoke a bowl of shag-cut brandy. Always gave me an edge. Some amateurs liked to get high, or wired, but that only blurred the sensation, the delicious rush of taking a life. None of that for me. I was a purist.

A pair of rich folks in fake fur strolled by giving me the eye, glaring hatefully at my smoking briarwood, but since I was on the open street they couldn't even say anything about my social crime. Hey, my lungs, my cancer, why should anybody else care? When a doc told me I had the Big C, I would have a wild week in Vegas, then eat my gun. Life was pain, my pipe removed some of that. If there was a price to pay down the line for my fun, so be it. Nothing was free.

Finishing, I tapped out my pipe, cleaned the bowl and tucked her away inside my trench coat. Wonderful things those, seemed to be made for hiding weapons. Just then, a patrol car rolled into view. Forcing myself to stay loose, I watched curiously as they passed by, the driver giving me hard once over with the full know. That was the only thing I truly feared, the collar. Getting arrested. Chains, shackles, iron bars, the whole thing gave me night sweats, and there was no way I was ever going in, even with an army of crooked lawyers on my side. The thought of handcuffs closing around my wrists made me nauseous and I stumbled into the alleyway and breathed in the sharp stink of rotting garbage for a while until my head cleared.

Felling better, I walked quickly through the darkness of the alley hoping that some dumb-ass mugger would try for my shiny, gold Rolex. A nice shot of death was just what I needed to clear my mind, but no such luck, and I was still feeling the shakes when I reached the address, using the corner street light to read the numbers printed on the inside of the matchbook given by my client.

Knocking hard on the door, I could hear it was iron plated on the inside, but lots of doors in the city had those. Good way to stop gangbangers with those ceramic nines from shooting through wood. The metal even slowed down the fire department with those titanium axes they used nowadays. Decent hinges, fancy French lock. Combined with the iron plating this door would a real bitch to get through fast. Unless you simply knocked.

"Who is it?" a thin voice demanded, a quaver of fear marking the challenge.

Okay, he was armed, but with an old man's gun. Maybe a .32, or even a .22 pistol. No problems there.

"You don't know me," I said clear and slow. "But you got a relative who is in big trouble. Stupid bastard has lost a fortune to the mob, and needs your help. Call 'em right now. Goodbye."

That was the kicker, saying goodbye. That removed all of the threat from the presence of a stranger and the dumb fools opened the doors right then and there, nine times out of ten.

I turned my back to maintain the illusion that I was actually going, and heard the lock slid aside and the door swing open. No squeak. He must oil the hinges. That was dumb. Creaky hinges were an excellent way to hear burglars in the night. This guy was no Einstein.

"Wait a sec," he demanded.

I turned and sure enough he was packing heat, but an Uzi machine pistol. The .22 mini-Uzi to be sure, but more than enough firepower to remove me from this world, and I was twice the size of this wizened old geezer. My instincts flared that this was a step-up and I raised my hands high in surrender.

"Put those down," he snapped, and I slid my hands into my coat pockets to grab my guns. "Now who did you say was in trouble again?"

"Your cousin," I lied. But it was a good one, rock solid. Damn near everybody on Earth had a stupid cousin. Even me. Mine wanted me to open a video store and go legit. What an imbecile.

But the geezer stepped back and grabbed the mini-Uzi with both hands dropping into a firing stance. "I don't have a cousin," he snarled, snapping the arming bolt on top. "I'm an orphan!"

Well, son of a bitch. Ten years in this job and I finally meet a goddamn orphan. Had to happen some day, I guess.

"McPherson?" I said leaning close as if looking at his face. "Craig McPherson, right?"

"Daniel McPherson," he corrected with a snort, lowering the barrel of the rapidfire. "You got the wrong-"

Using both guns, I fired through the fabric of my coat, the silenced .44 rounds sounding no louder than a door knock. The little guy flew backwards into his home, and I followed closed behind, pumping more slugs into his chest with my right hand as the left closed the door. He was dead before hitting the floor.

A cop friend who didn't know what I did for a living had told me that men always had to finish a sentence before shooting you. Some sort of sexual link to fucking, I suppose. Woman were the dangerous adversaries, they would often shoot you in the middle of a sentence and then finish talking to your corpse. I'd never aced a woman before, but was looking forward to the challenge.

After beating out the small fire on my trench coat caused by shooting through the fabric, I shrugged it off and kicked it aside. Its job was done for the night. Removing my spent clips and tucking 'em into my shirt pocket, I reloaded the Magnums and put two more rounds into his head, just to make sure, then removed a college signet ring from his warm hand as proof of the hit. Next, I checked the apartment over for any witnesses or spare cash. I had a trench coat to replace, and British shag-cut was very expensive. But then, the good stuff always was.

What a dump, a classic old man's home, lots of medicine and lotions, except for the back room. That was, well, I didn't know what the hell that was. Workbench with a lathe set to make slim wooden spindles with sharply tapered end, I guess, there was a pile of them in a box. A pegboard wall covered with a wide assortment of guns, ceramics pieces, derringers, machine guns, even a US Army M79 grenade launcher. This neighborhood was not that rough. Maybe he sold guns on the side, was cutting into some big boy's action and wouldn't play ball. Stupid. Always cut a deal, then shoot them in the back. There was no God. And no justice, just us, as the smart kids like to say.

But this old fart had a lot of crucifixes and rosaries everywhere, bottles labeled Holy Water, and brand new water pistols, the ones that held a gallon and could shoot a hundred feet. And fine tooled leather bandoleers lined with wooden stakes. It took me a sec, then I broke into laugher. The old freak was crazy, thought he was a vampire hunter! Now that was truly, honestly, funny.

Then I stopped cold in the middle of a chuckle. So why would somebody pay my rates to ace a crazy man? That old feeling that I was being scammed somehow came back strong, and I turned on a heel to leave, then paused and took a few of the more choice items from the collection on the walls. They'd fetch a good price on the street, and might come in handy. Just in case.

Returning to the bar across town, I placed a call and less than an hour later, my client returned. As he slid into the booth, I tossed the college ring on the table. It landed with a clatter and rolled around for a moment before going still.

"Where's the rest of my money," I demanded.

"So he's no longer with us," the client asked eagerly, pulling out a brown paper sack bound with rubber bands.

"He's dead, I killed him, open the bag," I ordered.

My client smiled widely, removed the rubber bands and slid the bag over. I looked inside and stuffed the wad into my damaged coat pocket without counting. My clients knew what to expect if I discovered that they had shortchanged me. The ultimate punishment. They'd face me.

"Thank you," he said rising to leave. "We are very pleased with your service and shall use you again."

"Sure, swell. Just one thing," I said, then tossed a crucifix onto the table.

The client hissed in terror at the thing and recoiled as if it was going to spit venom. Or maybe like he was.

"So you know about my master!" he snarled and clawed for a handgun in a shoulder holster.

I didn't know shit, but I was always ready. I fired twice with my silence .44 through the table and the client dropped his piece, his shoulder pumping blood from the gaping wounds caused by the military explosive rounds. Always use the best. He fell to his knees hacking for breath and spitting and bleeding and all the usual stuff.

Dave behind the bar appeared with a sawed-off in his grip, but I shook my head and he nodded in return, tucking the alleysweeper away. A former junkie, Dave ran the bar and did the taxes, but I owned this place. That's why I did business here.

Dragging my former client into the back room, I bolted the sound-proof door shut and turned just in time to kick another gun out of his hand. A hideaway piece. Smart boy, just too slow. I patted him down, taking away a couple of knives and a military grenade. It was color coded, but I didn't know what the symbols meant so I put it on a high shelf with the rest of the cleaning supplies far out of the dead man's reach.

"I will tell you nothing, hunter!" he gasped, a hand pressing tight to the bloody wound. Half of his shirt was stained red by now, and he was having trouble breathing. The slug had not gone anywhere near his lungs, must be having a panic attack.

Then I scowled. Hunter? I didn't do bounty work. Hmm. Taking out my pipe, I loaded the bowl and lit a smoke to think on this. I puffed for a few moments, then took out my can of butane lighter fluid and squirted some on the concrete floor.

He watched in fascination as I struck a match with one thumbnail, my other hand filled with the big bore .44 Magnum. As I dropped the burning wood stick into the fuel, the stuff whoofed into flames, the fire rising high for a moment, then fading away completely as the few drops of butane were consumed.

"This is a public tavern," he said, a break in his voice showing the fear. "You wouldn't dare."

He stopped talking as I squirted him in the mouth with the butane fuel, then his hair, the wounded shoulder and soaked the crotch of his pants, until the fuel seeped down deep where he could really feel it.

"Tell me about your master," I said, emptying the container into his hair until the fluid ran down his face like tears. Then I lit another match and let him see the pretty flame. "Tell me everything."

He talked, of course. Eventually, they all do. But the things he said were impossible, incredible, and very interesting. If true. I would have to check this out.

The penthouse was in the rich section of downtown, all chrome, tinted glass and liveried bodyguards. I had only done a few hits around here, and each had been a pain. But I knew how to handle these things better now.

Hiring a few hookers to stage a topless screaming fight right outside the apartment building, I waited until the armed Pinkerton guards were busy trying to chase the girls away and slipped inside. There was some poor bastard with no left arm working the elevator, so I used my stun gun and left him alive. Might have been a veteran. Even I got limits. No soldiers, period.

At the top, I hit the video cameras with spray paint and used a keywire gun to jimmy the lock to the place I wanted. As the door swung inward, I pulled out a can of mace and sprayed. Sure enough, some hulking muscle came charging out and caught the spray full in the face. The Pinkertons fell hacking and coughing for breath, I put them both away forever. Easy pie.

Stepping inside I closed the door trying not to drool with avarice. The place was loaded with goodies as I had expected, but I ignored the valuable trinkets and went straight into the master bedroom. First time I had ever heard the word used correctly. According to the burnt husk in the garbage can outside my bar, this was where the master slept.

The bed was gone, but in its place rested white marble bathtub, or maybe the word pool was correct, and sure enough the damn thing as filled with blood, the tell-tale coppery stink confirming that matter. Wild. An AutoSentry machine pistol stood in the corner, and as I approached its little dish on top swung towards me, the .32 rapid-fire underneath tracking only a second behind. But that was enough, and I blew it apart with a single thundering round from the .44 Magnum. How exciting. I liked a challenge.