Mike
Morgan was dressed like an SAS commando, all in black, with a black knit cap and blackout makeup on his face. He bristled top to bottom with weapons. The other man, a lean, strong figure, towered over him. He gave the impression of solidity, so much so that you would imagine the Washington Monument crumbling before he did. He wore the kind of sunglasses favored by skiers, and when he spoke, the lilting style was a mixture of colonial and southern formal that made my ears want to pack it in for the evening.
The woman was dressed the same, but looked like she’d be more comfortable with a sword in hand, collecting the souls of the dead from the battlefield for transport to Valhalla. When Morgan kissed her, I saw a real spark there between the two, a glimmer of something … divine.
After Morgan ran off, the woman turned my way and gave me a once-over. “Get a good eyeful, tall, dark and priestly?” she asked sourly.
I rubbed my moustache. “Was it at first sight? Or while you were planning this little shindig?” It was a random shot, but by the look of her, it scored.
“How did you-?”
“I may be priest, but I’m not blind.”
The long, lean man broke in. “As illuminating as the new-found romantic nature of my apprentice may prove, I do believe that introductions are in order. The lovely lady whose resemblance to a Valkyrie is more than coincidental is Maggie. I, sir priest, am Cain.” At my startled look he nodded. “Yes, that Cain. Brother of Abel. And while I realize that a priest may be brimming with questions both practical and philosophical for a gentleman such as myself, we have other, more pressing, concerns.” He waved a pistol at the Russian, who had remained seated throughout.
Cain? Cain? A few weeks ago the revelation would have had greater impact. Considering everything that had happened, it now seemed par for the course.
“Okay … Cain. Let’s tie him up.” What I wanted was to fillet Boris into Russian cutlets, but I was still a man of God.
The tall man flashed a huge smile. “When I arrived upon the scene, young … Morgan was in the process of providing you several Healings. Would it be incorrect to assume that you have suffered most egregiously at the hands of the infamous Boris, the Mad Russian?”
“If you’re asking me if he beat the living daylights out of me, then yes.”
Maggie cut in. “He looks nasty.”
I snorted. “Nastiest piece of work I’ve ever come across.”
She aimed a Tec-9.
“Stop!” I shouted, appalled. “We don’t kill prisoners.”
Her look told me I was a few cans short of a six-pack, but I just stared her down until she lowered her weapon. “What do we do with the bastard, then?” she asked.
Before I could answer, Cain stepped forward, coming within three feet of Boris. “I have been informed that you are a force to be reckoned with, an extraordinary fighter of incalculable skill.”
It took Boris a moment to digest that, but when he did, he tipped a spare nod.
“Wonderful!” Cain replied. “In my time I have studied the manly arts of the squared circle and consider myself a pugilist of no mean ability. To this end I have but one question.” He stepped back, lowered his weapon and smiled like a shark sizing up its breakfast. “Do you want a shot at the champ?”
Boris stood, his smile matching Cain’s mean for mean. “Oh, yes.”