Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer Read Online Free PDF Page B

make them think he was stupid, all mouth and no brain.
    Well, it was true enough: He sometimes mouthed off, got to breaking balls with the wrong people; but he could also back it up. He had the speed, the strength and the know-how, and it was time he showed these Francezcis just exactly who they were dealing with here. His gun may have been taken, but they had missed the slender, razor-edged knife in the sleeve of his lightweight jacket. Redeeming features? Oh, he would show them some redeeming features!
    Mike hadn’t known when exactly the brothers’ men had entered the room, there must be doors other than the one he had come in through. But as a shadow from behind him had darkened almost imperceptibly he had known for sure they were there, known also how to react to their threat. With the smell of aftershave growing stronger, he had slammed back his chair with every ounce of his strength, directly into the knees of both men, and was gladdened to hear at least one bone crack and a sharp yelp of pain. Then, turning as he started to his feet, he’d lashed out at the nearest target with a flat hand whose fingers were stiffened to rock hardness: a slicing blow to the throat.
    The man with the popped knee was already down, squirming in agony; the other—the one with the aftershave, who had lifted Mike’s gun—had been sent staggering, clutching at his throat where Mike’s blow had smashed his Adam’s apple. One glance, and Mike had climbed his chair, toppled it, been on the choking man in a second; one hand in his greasy hair while the other patted his jacket, dipped into a pocket and came out clutching his own weapon. And as easily as that he’d rearmed himself.
    Then Mike had taken a moment, all of half a second, to aim a kick at the downed man’s throat and put him right out of business, rammed his gun in Mr. Aftershave’s ear and, still clutching a handful of his hair, maneuvered him down to the floor and kneeled behind him, using him as a shield. He hadn’t even required to use his knife and it was all over, or so Mike had reckoned. But he had reckoned without the Francezcis.
    They had looked at Mike where his weapon was now pointed at them, and as they rose to their feet their movements were surprisingly smooth, unruffled. They appeared unafraid, even unconcerned! And again Mike had seen them glance at each other speculatively…or perhaps with new-found resolve? And:
    “So then,” the one called Anthony had slowly nodded, leaning forward to rest his knuckles on the table. “It would appear you are well capable of looking after yourself.” And smiling in his way—a smile as cold as the face of the moon—he’d continued, “Given time these men will recover, of course, but still you dealt with them in short order and severely. You have small regard, it seems, for your whereabouts and your…situation.” In its way a question, it was delivered with a raised eyebrow.
    “These ‘men’ of yours are useless,” Mike had replied. “Boys doing a man’s job—which doesn’t work. This one smells like a woman, and he didn’t even put the safety on my shooter!” Saying which he had returned the muzzle of his automatic to that one’s ear. “As for his ‘recovery:’ if I put a little pressure on this trigger he won’t be recovering, believe me! Not with his brains—if he ever had any—all over your nice shiny floor!”
    “Believe you? Oh, we believe you!” Francesco had answered, almost conversationally. “With his brain ruptured, ripped apart by a bullet, he would be very definitely dead. Which is as good a way as any to kill such as him, certainly.”
    “In fact,” said Mike, rising and releasing his victim, hurling him onto his side on the marble floor, “I’m surprised these guys have any life left in them at all!” He was frankly puzzled that both of the seriously injured soldiers were indeed showing signs of recovery, not squirming so much as trying to sit up!
    “Oh?” Anthony had