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rendevous with the Damned
Up until this moment, Milo had only felt a grumbling discontent for the idea of The School. Now, faced by the unsmiling woman and the vast, oaken doors, a cold trickle of uncertainty found its way into the base of his spine, and seemed to creep through his body slowly. The chauffeur had stepped out of the Mercedes: Milo was sure that the man was armed. Still no one spoke, so Milo alighted the steps, coming to the doors, and pushed the right side open. The door swung easily upon its hinges, but made an audible whine as it pivoted. Before it reached the halfway point of its arc, and in spite of the lack of light in the interior, Milo saw on the polished marble floor the stretching reflections of men in the interior hall. Some crouched, others stood, and there was no doubt they were armed. On the dark wood of the door’s exterior, a flicker of red laser-light jumped in and out of existence.
The door continued to open under it’s own momentum, but Milo sidestepped right and pivoted, exposing only his shoulder as an open target, and in the same motion withdrew from his sleeve the slim .22 automatic. The others were waiting for a target to cross the threshold, and as the door reached the midpoint of its swing, it began to bounce from the impact of shells and shot striking it from both sides: the ambushers had laid themselves out on the extreme right and left of the door, giving them a drop position regardless of which door the target passed through. Their fire, though, was unfocused, and ineffectively concentrated. In spite of their initial cleverness, they appeared amateurish. He could make out the detonation of shotguns, the chatter of machine pistols, and the statcatto of automatics. Their motley choice of weapons, their choice to stand like a slightly cunning firing squad, just barely out of plain sight, further suggested children playing cowboy. It was the clumsy style of Mafiosi or particularly dull-witted gang members, not professionals of any acumen.
While the position at the doorjamb was superior cover to open ground, Milo was still exposed, and unable to retreat down the stairs without further losing position. His only advantage was the leanness of the angle from his position: pressed flat against the wall as he was, and with the ambushers armed with high caliber handguns, automatic weapons and shot, precision aim would be difficult, while his practically recoilless .22 was perfectly suited to the task. He emptied the .22, roughly estimating the positions of the others from their reflections and the flashes of gun, and cursing his mangled hand for depriving him of yet another weapon. Buckshot grazed his upraised fist, and stone splinters from ricochets seemed to dig into his arm, one bullet dragged a worm-like line across his forearm at the wrist; another passed through, just below the elbow. But the cessation of flashes and the shortening of the reflections suggested he had immobilized the targets on the right, and he could hear the shuffle of boots as the left wing of the squad were re-positioning while trying to avoid further fire. Taking the momentary lull to his advantage, Milo sprinted to the Mercedes, taking cover behind its front wheel well.
Drawing the .38 from shoulder holster was awkward; it had been positioned for use by his now-mangled hand, and it seemed like an eternity of fumbling to pull it out with the other. Fire opened up on the Mercedes: they were now using the left door as cover. In his momentary observation, it had been clear that the door had a heavy frame, but only flimsy, installed panels. Using the hood of the Mercedes as a prop for his wounded gun-arm, he squeezed off four shots: two high, two low. All cut through the panels; two further men dropped, forming a pile in the still-open right doorway, and the covering fire ceased. The bodies were wearing black suits; none of the men had remarkable, or telling features – they were likely a mercenary unit, or something similarly primitive and blunt.
Milo wondered if this was his father’s idea of a brilliant plan to finally settle him. For the first time, he also noticed the disappearance of both chaffeur and woman, but decided not to think on it. Forcing the reloaded .22 into his crippled hand, he charged the door, ducking low, and zigzagging, to avoid potential fire. At fifteen paces, he put two more bullets in the collapsed men; clean headshots. Closing the remaining distance, he applied his knee to left door at a run, bursting it open and causing the two limp bodies to skid along the floor. Milo focused upon his covering rotation, both guns brandished at arm’s length, but his feet suddenly found no purchase, skittering in blood and brains, and he was falling backward, feeling his bladder loosen and terror-vomit well up his gorge.
He touched down on his elbows, his breath released in a surprised “Huff!,” and his elbow-wound screamed. Rolling, spasming to a kneeling position, unaware of his own screaming and the soaking fear-sweat that had inundated his clothes, he fired his guns empty into the darkness.
Blinded by adrenalin and the flashes of his pistols, Milo stood, his shaking hands locating new clips of their own accord. He was aware of the stillness of the main room; with both doors open, the half-light showed him immobile bodies scattered along the right of the broad room. Without taking a step, he fired again at each prostrate body. Then, tentatively, slowly, he advanced into the room, his eyes and his pistols scanning back and forth, from right to left. His eyes adjusted: the room was an extravagant entrance hall; two sweeping staircases dominated it, opposite the entrance, and an immense chandolier hung from the high ceiling. Four doors were visible yet clearly shut.
At first there was only his breathing, reflected off walls and magnified, and the occasional squeak of shoes upon marble. But slowly he became aware of another sound, a strange tinny squeak, the noise of a mosquito, yet not merely a drone. It came from nowhere and everywhere. Standing between the staircases, he closed his eyes, trying to find the source.
From behind him, a hand reached down, and gently clicked off Milo’s mp3 player.
Milo tried to wheel, but the newcomer’s hands had found their way to the open wounds on his arms, twisting the guns out his grip while dragging fingernails across his burned hand, a finger digging its way into the ragged bullet hole in his forearm. Having neatly removed his weapons, one of the newcomer’s hands slipped its way down to Milo’s testicles, the other tripping upwards to his windpipe, both squeezing implacably.
Milo felt his knee give way, his body slip backwards, but the stranger kept his embrace, supporting the larger man. Milo could feel the lips next to his ear, the tickle in the hair around it. The voice had no characteristic but age, it was toneless, lacking markers of place or gender; the breath that carried smelled lightly of aniseed. Impressive, but lacking grace, the voice said, not unlike you father. The grip at his throat tightened, and the world became grainy, and spots rose before Milo’s eyes. By the way, the voice continued, welcome to the Alamut.
Milo awoke hanging upside down. A video monitor, conveniently oriented for his use, looped tapes of his recent killings, closing with the performance at the mansion. Across a tannoy, another voice, a female one that he knew, bombarded him:
Perfection of the assassin’s art is the transcendence of the self: there is no style, no image, no heroism and no villainy. Nor is their right and wrong: there is only the art of the task at hand. Fourty students enter the Alamut, only three will leave from any “class.” There are only two rules at the Alamut: the first is to obey the Senex and your oyabun; the second, your classmates are your opponents – dispose of them to succeed, but do so clandestinely. There is only one punishment for failure.
[ 04-03-2002: Message edited by: [monkeys of thoth] ] |
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