Flood

55

THE WAREHOUSE LOOMED in sight. Max rolled in the front, slipped out from behind the wheel, and went back to close the door, all in one continuous motion. I knew he’d be hitting the switch to tell Flood the cargo had arrived.

Max opened the door on my side, I slid out, he walked around the back of the Plymouth, and opened the Cobra’s door. Wilson climbed out, stretched himself, yawned. He looked at Max, said, “He’s a zip…” in a surprised voice. I shrugged my shoulders in a what-can-you-do? gesture and pointed to the stairs. The Cobra started to climb, seemed to hesitate when he heard something, then realized it was just a radio. Hearing Hank Williams sing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” seemed to add a spring to his step. As he completed the first flight I slipped past him to show him the way to the second, where Flood would be waiting, leaving Max behind him. The Cobra was in a box, but not the box where he belonged-not yet.

I got to the door of Max’s temple and we couldn’t hear the music anymore. I pushed aside the bamboo so the Cobra would precede me, and we all went inside-

And there stood Flood in the black robes, in a room lit only by the flickering candles on the altar.

“What the fuck is…?” He spun around to face me. He saw the double-barreled sawed-off leveled at his chest, and stopped. He glanced at Max and saw the warrior, now wearing the same black robes as Flood.

“Give me the passport,” I said, “and if your hands touch anything else you’re chopped meat.”

The Cobra reached slowly for his breast pocket, saying “Hey, look… man, look. I got it. It’s here. What’s going on…?”

He placed the passport gently on my open palm. Flood stood watching-still as stone. I held the passport in one hand, slid my thumb inside and flipped it open to the first page. There was his picture-and MARTIN HOWARD WILSON in government lettering. A valid passport, just like he promised. I nodded to Flood and Max.

The Cobra stood with his hands at his sides, waiting to see if he’d passed the test. I prodded him forward with the scattergun until he was close enough to see the little red table. Close enough to see the metal spike with the dark wood handle wrapped in red silk. Close enough to see the picture of Sadie and Flower-to see his own photograph. Then he knew.

Max and I stepped back, away from him. I spoke to him in a calm voice-no more mystery. “Look, pal. It’s a job, you understand. This lady has a beef with you and she hired us to bring you here. Now it’s between you and her. We’re out of it. Only you don’t leave until it’s settled. That’s it.”

The Cobra stood there, staring straight ahead-his mouth was open, his breathing was bad. Then Flood spoke up, her voice thin and clear, without a tremor. “Martin Howard Wilson”-like a judge handing down a sentence-“you killed that child. Flower. Her people are dead. I am of the child’s blood and I want yours in payment-”

“What is this shit-”

“Shut up,” I told him, moving the shotgun for emphasis.

Flood went on as if nobody had spoken. “I will fight you. Now. In this room. On this ground. We fight to the death. Only one of us leaves this room. If you defeat me, you will be free to go.”

The Cobra looked at me. I nodded. “That’s the deal, pal. One of you leaves the room.”

“I beat this cunt and I leave? No problems?”

“No problems,” I said, and stepped back.