Dragons Luck

The assassin said nothing. The eyes told it all. This man’s eyes said that he was relating simple truth. The assassin was mildly curious what sort of “opponents” he was used to, but didn’t care much. He was in this work for the money, not the sport.

George sighed again, and again the pistol dipped a moment. His left hand. His right must be dominant. The assassin was watching for any more weaknesses when the man surprised him.

George leaned forward, and tossed his left-hand weapon across the table halfway between the two. The right-hand weapon never wavered. The assassin kept his eyes on that gun, never once glancing to the one on the table.

“I have decided to be sporting. That is your weapon. I will leave this room, but not the building. You will not leave the building, not alive. Not unless you kill me first, understand?”

“And if I decide not to play your game?”

“Feel free to try to change the rules, but it is simple. You will not leave, or get your hit, until I am dead.”

The assassin had a quick mind and was good at percentages. He took this offer, this game, at face value. But he had no intention of following the other man’s lead.

“Why should I trust that weapon? Toss me the empty and keep the full so you can kill me with your conscience clear?”

He knew the answer, knew that this sportsman before him wouldn’t do such a thing. He mentally counted to ten and fought to keep his breathing regular. He wanted to hold his breath, hoping this ploy would work.

It did.

“Very well, take the other,” George said.

Carefully, oh so carefully, George moved toward the table. He reached down, blindly, keeping his piece trained on the assassin. Only when he had the other gun in his hand did he glance down. Just for an instant, his right-hand pistol drooped.

The assassin moved in that instant, kicking the table up, jarring George’s hands. A blade, long and sharp, was in the assassin’s hand. It cut through the tendons of George’s right wrist, as a hard blow struck his left.

Blood sprayed.

The assassin kept moving, using his momentum to drive George’s left wrist into the wall. The right-hand gun fell, the left hung loosely in George’s pinned hand.

The blade slashed across George’s stomach, then up and in.

The assassin held his opponent on the blade, not releasing the limp hand still holding a weapon. The stomach blow was a killing one, but a slow death. The assassin needed information.

“How did you find me? Who are you?”

He twisted the blade, George groaned. The smell of blood and worse filled the room.

“Ah! Ahn . . . oh! I say, you are good. Better than me if truth be told,” George said through pain-bared teeth.

Which seemed obvious to the assassin given their current situation.

“Answer!” said the assassin.

“Yo . . . Ah! Your contacts and middlemen aren’t nearly as professional as you. What with your rush job I managed to track down the person handling your booking. But to be fair, I had advance warning on who to look for.”

The assassin twisted the blade again, and George arched against the wall, closing his eyes, momentarily groaning. He seemed too coherent to the assassin; it unnerved him.

“Pity, really, I did try to play as fair as I could,” George said.

The assassin knew his business. Still, he only noticed that George’s right wrist had stopped bleeding an instant before the fist cracked against his jaw.

The assassin lost contact with his foe for a moment, then George simply vanished.

The cold weight of a pistol barrel dug into the back of the assassin’s skull. A blow to the back of his knees sent him kneeling to the floor.

“So much for sportsmanship,” George said.

The blade the assassin had left in George’s sternum sliced along his throat. His last thought, almost idle, was to wonder why George hadn’t shot him, now or earlier.

Too noisy.

Sixteen

Even though the Voodoo Museum was only a half block off Bourbon Street, very few tourists found it. It was far enough north of the main concentration of bars and souvenir shops that one did not come across it in a normal prowl down Bourbon Street, and even if one had a map and was looking for it, its frontage was nondescript enough that it was easy to overlook.

Most of the Quarter locals at least knew of its existence. If nothing else, it was only a half block from the Clover Grill, a favorite twenty-four-hour greasy spoon that people migrated toward when they needed a break from gumbo and red beans and rice, and felt the need for a plain old hamburger or maybe some waffles.

Griffen had passed the place dozens of times but had never ventured in. Now, pausing at the doorway, he found himself wishing he had yielded to his curiosity at least once. As it was, he knew little to nothing about voodoo, and so felt woefully unprepared for the upcoming meeting. Still, it seemed there was no avoiding it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the door.