Dead on My Feet 2 by Simmons Wm. Mark

Author:Simmons, Wm. Mark [Simmons, Wm. Mark]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Contemporary, General, Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Epic
ISBN: 9781416509103
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2005-10-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing I noticed was that there were fewer cars in the parking lot than when we had arrived. It was too early for the evening’s entertainment to wind down and I knew of no other social events likely to siphon off the crowd tonight.

Three more cars drove off while I stood and looked over the lot. At least there had been one new arrival in the past hour: a green Chevy Nova was parked four spaces over from my car.

I affected a casual amble, moving across the lined asphalt in a roundabout route to see if anyone was loitering in the vicinity.

Nope.

As I drew near, I noticed that my car sagged a bit: the right rear tire was flat. So much for a quick getaway.

Upon closer examination the problem was clear: a slitted puncture in the sidewall of the tire. Stiletto? No . . . the slit was three times the width of a stiletto blade. More like the signature of an Army combat knife. One end of the cut was even abraded as if caught by the back saw-edge of such a blade.

I looked across at the Nova and then back at my poor, abused coupe. Talk about adding major insult to injury . . .

Whatever happened to the good old days when vampires rarely traveled by coach and spent most of their time lurking around castle corridors?

I opened my trunk, hauled out the jack and the spare. Took off my jacket and proceeded to set a new world’s record for a tire change outside of a raceway pit crew. Put my jacket back on and grinned: now the element of surprise had shifted.

I looked back over at the Nova. There was room to shift it some more.

I put my ruined tire and my jack back in my trunk and looked around. Wondered a bit about security cameras. Remembered that my image worked about as well on videotape as it did on mirrors.

I hefted my tire iron and walked to the far side of the Nova. Doing my best Minnesota Fats impression, I poked a hole in its rear tire. Now we were even.

Except I was ahead of the game now.

But not enough ahead, I decided, curling my fingers under the lip of the Nova’s trunk. I pulled and lifted using a little of the preternatural strength that my tainted blood had granted as a benevolent side effect. The catch popped with a groan of stressed metal. If I couldn’t bend it back to close tight, they might still believe it was the sudden dive into the ditch that left it sprung.

Or they might not once they found out that I had popped their spare, as well.

The spare was not readily accessible. Under the amber wash of the parking lot lights I could make out tarpaulin bundles that lay across the flooring and wheel well. I pulled one of the edges back. Looked. Started opening the other bundles.

The handguns were on top: a couple of 9mm SIG Sauer P226 pistols, a .

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