Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

Hendrik’s eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“You saw the pinpricks on her?” Roelof asked. “The little pricks on her bum, below the tan line?”

No response from Hendrik.

“I did that because I thought she might pop. She’s a blow-up doll, that chick of yours. But she didn’t pop, she liked it. So I did it every time. She used to bring her own pins.”

Roelof paused. Hendrik looked up then, and he looked at Roelof. He didn’t say anything or react, he simply looked at him. Roelof couldn’t read the danger signs, and he carried on with an extra burst of anxious enthusiasm.

“She’s going to need some comforting after you’ve played your part in creating a better future for us.” Roelof paused and licked his lips anxiously. Hendrik kept staring at him, and it was irritating Roelof more than the blank gaze at the floor. From all around us came the sounds of the mounting excitement of the crowd. The murmur of a thousand conversations, occasional shouts and laughs, and snatches of rowdy chanting. The main event was due to start in less than ten minutes.

Roelof had many things to do in the last few minutes. He had made a list on a piece of paper that had been folded and unfolded too many times. He double checked the wiring of the detonator on Fat-Boy’s bulletproof vest, and his hands were shaking when he checked the wires of the second detonator strapped to Hendrik. The sweat on his fingers meant that he had to try three times before managing to seat the wires correctly.

The chanting of the crowd developed a rhythm as it moved in waves around the stadium. The air in our stuffy room seemed to vibrate with it.

“Going to be a big crowd,” said Roelof, and his face tightened with a mixture of excitement and fear.

Hendrik was released from his bonds, and he stood beside his chair and stretched his fingers to get the blood flowing. From the stadium came the sounds of the sing-song chants building in strength.

“You don’t want to pull any of those wires out, Hennie,” said Roelof. “You understand? This thing is rigged to blow if you do anything. Anything. You get it?”

Hendrik stared at his flexing fingers as if wondering whether to strike Roelof. But he didn’t. Roelof helped him with his shirt and stood back to admire his handiwork.

“Now the fat one.” Roelof slapped Fat-Boy in the face – Fat-Boy spluttered and opened his eyes. “Get him on his feet.”

That instruction was aimed at me, and I stood up. Roelof untied my hands, and I helped Fat-Boy up by putting my arms under his and heaving his great bulk up. For a moment we stood in the semblance of an embrace, and then Fat-Boy took his own weight on his legs, and we separated. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with dried blood from the gash on his forehead. His eyes held mine as they focused.

“Been an honour,” he said through his swollen lips.

“It’s not over,” I said.

“I love you, Angel. I do. You’re a fucking arsehole, but I love you. It’s been an honour. It has.”

“Yeah, yeah, all very touching,” said Roelof. “Now step away and let’s see if he can stand on his own.”

I stepped away, and Fat-Boy swayed a little, but remained standing.

“Now get dressed, fatso. It’s nearly show time.”

Fat-Boy pulled on the top part of his overalls, and then Roelof held the vest with attached backpack for him to struggle into. Roelof tightened the straps and then stepped back to perform a final inspection. Hendrik and Fat-Boy stood like string puppets left hanging from a hook, but Roelof seemed pleased enough. He turned to me.

“We’ve got to go now, Mossie. It’s time to say goodbye.” He raised the Ruger and pointed it at me. I kept my eyes on his and the gun wavered slightly and drooped a little.

This was my last opportunity. I drew Chandler’s Glock but as my finger found the trigger, Hendrik suddenly lurched forwards at Roelof. Roelof caught him, and Hendrik obscured my shot.

Roelof’s panicky eyes saw my Glock, and his hand with the Ruger reached around Hendrik. He squeezed the trigger.

The 9 mm bullet caught the side of my vest under my arm and the impact pushed me over. The pain of a rib cracking and the crunch of my head against the concrete floor overwhelmed me for a moment. But it was only a moment. I turned back to Roelof and saw him raise his gun. I had fallen badly, my firing arm trapped beneath me. I fired, but the shot went wide, and then I heard another shot. Pain from my leg tore up my body. There was no bulletproof vest on my leg. The pain started pulling a curtain across the world. I had to stop myself from falling. Had to stay up here in the world. Had to. I pointed the Glock at Roelof and fired again, but he ducked as he dragged Hendrik out of the room. I tried to get up, but the pain pushed me down. I fell back with my arms and legs reaching up towards a dwindling point of light.

Twenty-Seven

I clawed my way back to consciousness on the crest of a rising tide of nausea. The concrete walls and floors swirled around me as I knelt on the ceiling and threw up. The room tilted, and I was on the floor again. The stench of bile sharpened my mind, reality returned in small pieces. I felt the physical vibration of the chanting crowd. It had been broken for only a moment. I had time if I acted fast.

I was alone in the room. Roelof had managed to take Fat-Boy with them. I noticed blood on the floor with the vomit; my leg was bleeding badly as the bullet had cut clean through the quadriceps. The bone was still intact, but if I didn’t stop the bleeding, I would achieve nothing. The rope