The Pulptress (12 page)

Now she scanned the
contents of the various booths visible. Almost no guns. A fair
number of knifes and other tools of the hunter and fisherman. But
the area seemed to be heavily into chemical lures and masking
scents. Not to mention sports drinks, with barely a brand she
recognized.

***

Roger Claiborne fumed as he
sat in his booth at the Rod & Gun show. His big client was over
an hour late. And there he sat doing virtually no business sitting
next to a case of bottles that could get a bunch of people
arrested. Including him. The refilled sports drink bottles sat
under a stand with a cloth over them. Claiborne could not help
keeping a close eye on them. Each bottle was worth thousands. And,
if some jerk managed to lift a bottle... And drink it... He'd be
spectacularly dead before he could put the bottle down. He
shivered, just thinking about it.

Then he saw that guy with
the blue suit headed back his way. Claimed he was writing an
article on sports drinks. Probably was, Roger could count the
number of men wearing suits at the show on one hand.

Then, off to the left, he
spotted his client, all dressed up in brand new hunting gear, with
his two bodyguards headed his way. Jeez, he wished he had a rod
that wasn't the kind for fishing.

Roger glanced around. Just
Rubes in all directions except for the guy in the blue suit. The
fellow seemed to keep circling the area. He'd hinted at a desire to
buy body building stuff. The every day under the table variety.
Roger decided he might make some extra money from the guy. But only
after the main event. Nothing was more important than
that.

After stopping at a couple
of other booths the client came up to Roger's.

“
Good morning, Mr. Luthor,”
said Roger, thereby giving the all clear signal. Lex Luthor, my big
toe, he thought. He knew exactly who this player was.

“
Morning, Claiborne,” came
the reply. The client glanced around and then at the smaller of the
bodyguards. The man nodded. “Things seem okay,” the man continued
in a lower voice. “You have what I'm interested in.”

“
Yes, sir. Been vetted by
the laboratory you told the maker about. This brochure has the
details.”

Roger passed over the
bright folded paper. “Mr. Luthor” opened the thing to read the
report hidden inside. He closed the flyer with a slight
smile.

“
You do realize that this
will be checked?”

“
Mr. Luthor, I know the
system. Check everything, not a problem. Those bottles haven't been
out of my sight since I picked them up. You'll get exactly what I
received. Believe me, I'm not looking for any kind of trouble. No,
sir!”

“
Good. Just so we understand
each other.”

Roger felt himself begin to
relax. Another two minutes and... That's when everything went to
Hell in a hand-basket.

“
Claiborne!” came an angry
voice from up the way.

All four looked that way to
see a big man rounding the corner of a cross-aisle booth. His
aggressive forward motion somehow got tangled with the man in the
blue suit.

“
Who?”

“
I owe him money, Mr.
Luthor. Told him I'd pay off at the end of today. Must have
followed me. Flippin' idiot!”

“
Luthor” nodded to the
bodyguards. One word left his lips, “Quietly!”

The bodyguards headed up
the aisle shoulder to shoulder as the big man untangled himself and
started forward.

“
Please, sir, let our friend
finish his business...”

“
Business, Hell! I want my
money!” came the reply. With that the man grabbed the edge of a
tablecloth behind him. A hard yank sent things flying in all
direction. Before the bodyguards could react the tablecloth covered
their heads.

The attacker moved to push
“Luthor” aside. Only to have his arm taken into a Ju Jitsu move
that ended with him smashing onto the top of Claiborne's front
table. The legs of the thing folded. Bottles, flyers, and such flew
in all directions. But the attacker sprang to his feet. That's when
the bodyguards arrived. Claiborne grabbed the case of special
bottles and back-peddled to the rear of his booth. He stared wide
eyed as the real fighting started.

***

Emily would have been
astonished if she could have seen the space buff when things blew
up. Shedding his coat as he moved he dived under the heavy skirt of
a booth front. As he crawled towards the uproar he somehow managed
to reverse his suit coat. He yanked something out of pockets
revealed by the change. Then he tore off his hair, all of it
seemingly. But no, a receding, mostly gray crew-cut
remained.

He passed through a second,
third and fourth booth before he stuck his head out. Just in time
to see the interloper take a heavy tackle-box to the side of the
head. The man slammed into the cloth covering the side of the next
booth. Metal and plastic shrieked and snapped loudly. He staggered
further in that direction toppling the rear cloth of the booth, not
to mention three sets of display shelves, right on to
himself.

Before the sounds of
destruction faded “Luthor's” bodyguards snatched up fishing knives
from the next display. Seeing security guards hurrying in from the
exits, they bolted for the thin plastic covering the hole in the
divider wall. Not three steps behind them stumbled Roger with the
precious case of bottles.

The two musclemen swung
their knives like they'd practiced the routine. An opening appeared
as if by magic. “Luthor” stepped through and the two covered his
retreat. They hurried across the teams' area towards the
competition itself. The space buff now dashed forward as Roger
followed the others.

He saw Roger stumble as he
stepped on a pair of street shoes. Just as he reached the fresh cut
door Roger stepped over the low rope to the aisle. Then Roger
caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. But he figured
he'd just run over whoever came along. That's when the rolling
transport legs of the vaulting horse slammed into his
feet.

Roger went flying end over
end. All the while he rolled his body around the case to keep the
bottles from breaking. He landed flat on his back. The wind went
out of him. He fought for breath. He fought to get up. Then small
hands touched his neck and shoulder. And pressed hard. The last
thought he had for quite some time involved the Vulcan nerve
pinch.

***

As soon as the man's head
lolled to one side Emily dived and rolled into a now empty booth
selling meet souvenirs. All others in the vicinity had wisely fled.
She opened her butt-pack to extract her emergency money. Keeping
low she grabbed an oversized meet sweatshirt, and a Poplar Park
bandana. She slid money under the cash drawer, then slithered off
to don her “purchases.”

As she did she saw a man in
dark blue trousers, a blue-black suit jacket and clerical collar
hurry by.

She looked closely at the
trousers. Li Suan's voice spoke in her head, “Always memorize a
small detail, Emily. Something the subject will not be able to see
well. Or notice.”

And she remembered. In
addition to the man's jacket being exactly the same shape, there
were a few light splash spots just above the back of the cuffs.
That had to be the space buff. In spite of the hair and scrunched
up face. She darted behind the judges tables at the balance beam to
keep up with him. They arrived at the trouble spot together. He
stood in plain sight. She squatted beside a huge potted plant. The
three men had bolted into a big knot of competitors and parents.
Now each of the three grabbed someone. One objecting father folded
up from a kick to the breadbasket. With their hostages they moved
toward an emergency exit. Then the man in the clerical collar
stepped forward.

“
My sons!” said an elderly
voice. Just about every head but Emily's swiveled in that
direction. “My sons, please think what you do,” he continued. “Stop
before somebody is seriously hurt.”

“
Back off!” snapped the
taller of the two toughs.

“
He's right, Father,” said
“Luthor” with a touch of resignation in his voice. “We don't wish
to hurt anyone. But we will to get out of here.”

The man in the blue-black
jacket moved from in front of the distraught parents and coaches to
the side. She saw him briefly touch his throat, then lower his
hands to his sides. From her vantage point she saw metal handles
for fishing rods slide from his sleeves into the palms of his
hands.

When the “priest” spoke
again Emily couldn't believe her ears. The words constantly changed
in tone and pitch. But the intensity could not be denied. Briefly
she wondered if the man spoke more like God, or Satan. The hardened
trio blanched at the sounds.

“
Sean Farrell! Studs
Gallegos! Herman 'Slugger' Joyce! Your identities are known. An
Operation 100 has been called. Surrender, while you still
can!”

From the other side of the
potted plant Emily heard the voice of Sam Five whisper, “Everybody
listen up! The man dressed like a priest is the Voice. He's drawing
their attention away from the other hostages and directly onto
himself. Don't make any moves they can see. But be ready to back
his play.”

Emily now took her first
detailed look at the hostages. A middle aged man she'd seen judging
the vault. A woman, probably a parent, clutching a girl's butt
pack. And the third, held by the man in a new hunting outfit, was
Daisy McTeel.

Emily glanced around. No
sign of Captain McTeel. But, he had to be somewhere near
by.

***

“
Nobody has been seriously
hurt,” continued the Voice. “Let them go!”

The two bodyguards held
fast as Sean Farrell worked his way backward toward the
exit.

“
There'll be police at that
exit, Ferrell!” exclaimed the Voice. His whole attention seemed to
be on the leader of the three. Or so the bodyguards
thought.

Emily couldn't believe her
eye's as the Voice's arms flashed across his body and upward one
impossibly fast after the other. The rod handles zipped straight
toward the bodyguards' faces. Each thought at first that the other
was the one menaced. For just a split second. But that was
enough.

The Voice sprang forward
like a Cougar. One man ducked under the handle. That put him and
his hostage off balance. The other took the handle right across the
eyes. With one hand the Voice jabbed his throat. The other hand
snatched the knife from the man's uncertain grip. With the same
motion he released the knife over and down. The second bodyguard
did not have time to react. Not to hurt his hostage. Not to his
buddy's knife pinning his foot firmly to the floor. The Voice
grabbed the hand with the knife as he administered a hand edge
strike to the temple. Then he pulled the hostage forward and to the
side.

“
It's over, Farrell,”
proclaimed the graveyard tones. “
Let the girl
go!
”

***

Emily saw the man holding
Daisy begin to pull something out of a pocket blocked from the
Voice's view by the girl's shaking body. She screamed “Daddy,
behind you!” at the top of her voice, then dove behind a
pillar.

Farrell stopped moving to
look around for just an instant. But that was enough. A fourth
place trophy came flying in. The marble base smashed into the
bridge of the man's nose. His grip loosened. Daisy sprinted for her
mother's arms. Her father, still holding another trophy, dashed
forward to apply handcuffs to the fallen criminal.

Emily scuttled around the
pillar and down a deserted aisle. A couple of seconds later someone
fell in step beside her. The sounds of the words were soft now, but
still just as eerie.

“
Little lady you've got some
nice moves. Even nerve pressure points. Get out of sight for a
moment. McTeel will be along any second.”

Emily ducked behind a
corner of the raised tumbling platform. Sure enough she heard
hurrying footsteps approaching.

“
Nice throw,
McTeel.”

“
Seems I owe you again,”
said McTeel.

“
Captain,” came the reply in
a normal voice, “you owe nothing. Just doing your job like you have
been is better than anything I could want. Except for a quick way
out.”

“
I'll cover you there.
Gladly. But I'd like to talk to that girl who helped out. Find out
her story.”

“
Her story will be written
in the years to come, my friend. I'm betting she's a future
Independent Operator.”

As their footsteps and
voices faded away Emily mused, “Independent Operator? What the heck
is that? I'll bet Li Suan and Dunklin know.”

***

March 2009

Emily stepped out of her
air-conditioned car in business attire including a light jacket.
Part of her cover. Plus it let her conceal various gadgets and
weapons. She carried an aluminum clipboard with a set of electrical
specifications visible. She hurried without seeming to into the
lobby of the resort and meeting center. The Pulptress hated the
sweaty feeling of her wig in the steamy Florida sunshine. But her
scalp began to perspire by the time she got inside.