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.Their light green color was not due to corrosion, for the metal still sparkled, and the only dust on them was what had settled from the explosion only minutes before.Mulcifer continued to beckon the men to come closer and make room for those still in the tunnel."Come in, come in, gentlemen.Nothing to bite you here.And I don't think we need to be concerned about being disturbed by the authorities.There are the canisters I require.They weigh one hundred pounds each.I really don't want to overburden any of you, particularly on such an arduous journey, so I suggest that two men carry one canister.That will allow us to remove five of them, which should certainly be sufficient for my purposes.Shall we?"They paired off, Mulcifer and Rob taking the first canister and leaving through the opening.Angus and another man were next.Angus positioned the top of the six-foot-long canister under his left arm and followed Mulcifer and Rob, his partner behind him.Soon they were all winding their way up the gentle incline of the tunnel again.So this was the gas, Angus thought, the shite that Colin hadn't ever wanted to use.And here he was, disobeying his leader, not his clan chief, perhaps, but someone far more important to him.He felt like Benedict Arnold, another Judas for England.They had lost their purpose now, maybe their entire goal, and it was all the fault of this preening, poncy bastard who called himself Mulcifer, like he was some actual demon from the bowels of hell.Well, he wasn't a demon, whatever he was.He was alive, and anything that lived could be killed, if only someone had the will to do it.Maybe now was the time.Mulcifer seemed to be straining a wee bit under his load.It could be that he was concentrating so much on the physical that his guard was down.It would be so easy just to take out his gun and shoot the prick.He could at least try it.With his free right arm he reached into his jacket where his pistol nestled in its shoulder holster.It was one sweet gun, a Glock 21, capable of spitting out ten.45 slugs as fast as he could pull the trigger, which was pretty damned fast.He tentatively wrapped his fingers around the butt and was surprised to find that he could do it, especially with the thought so strong in his mind of killing Mulcifer.Now, if he could only take it out.He gave it a sharp tug, and it left the holster and rested in his hand, the metal warming to his touch.Then he brought it out and held it in front of him, against his chest.He'd have to be careful to avoid hitting Rob, but if Angus moved slightly to the side, he thought he could shoot past his friend easily enough.Angus had no doubt that he could do it now.The bastard's guard was down, he was sure of it.He could pull the trigger, and he would.He raised the gun, gritted his teeth, put pressure on the trigger.And the gun fired, slamming a slug into the back of Mulcifer's head, pushing him forward so that he dropped the canister with a ringing clatter.Rob dropped to the ground, and Angus kept firing, the bullets hitting Mulcifer in the neck, the head, the back, pushing him forward like a puppet, the bullets holding him up like strings as screams burst from him with each shot.Then the magazine was empty, and Mulcifer, with one final agonized wail, fell straight down onto his face, and Angus heard his skull crack against the stone floor.Mulcifer's fingers and feet twitched spastically, then stiffened, and he was still."I'll be damned," Angus whispered in the sudden stillness, slowly lowering his end of the canister to the ground.Not one of the men had drawn his own gun to defend Mulcifer, and now they just stood there, all holding their canisters except for Rob.He still lay where he had dropped, but he was looking from Mulcifer's riddled body to Angus's emptied pistol and back again, hope slowly growing on his face."I'll be goddamned," Angus said, a smile starting to crease his broad face as he walked slowly toward the creature lying on the stone floor of the tunnel.He stood above him, looking down at the back of his ruined head, the white shirt shredded by bullets.Then he crouched down next to him."You go to hell, you bastard," he said softly.Mulcifer turned over and smiled."You first, you chubby Scottish bitch."Angus felt bathed in ice.For a moment he could not move.Then he scuttled away from Mulcifer until he came up against the stone wall, still holding his doubly useless pistol in his hand.Mulcifer was getting to his feet now, and the damage that the bullets had done to his head and body seemed to be healing as Angus watched, the flesh knitting itself back together again seamlessly.Although the shirt remained torn, the blood that had stained it was vanishing, fading from crimson to pink to peach to the transparency of water."What did you think, Angus?" asked Mulcifer clearly and flawlessly from a throat that the bullets had torn apart."That you could kill me? That somehow your bullets could succeed where all others had failed? That you were Wallace or the Bruce or some other dead Scottish hero whose magic could slay the evil prince? And did you think that I would not be aware of your feelings, your hatred? I knew what you intended, you fat fool—I allowed you to draw that gun, to shoot me down.Because I wanted them all to see that doing so causes me no harm, no, not even discomfort.And one thing more—I want them to see what happens to those who disobey.""You." Angus felt his words choke in his throat, but he would not let this vile thing know how afraid he was of it.He pushed the words out, broad and burred and Scottish."You go and fook yoursel'.""The word," said Mulcifer dryly, "is 'fuck,' and it's one that gentlemen shouldn't use [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Their light green color was not due to corrosion, for the metal still sparkled, and the only dust on them was what had settled from the explosion only minutes before.Mulcifer continued to beckon the men to come closer and make room for those still in the tunnel."Come in, come in, gentlemen.Nothing to bite you here.And I don't think we need to be concerned about being disturbed by the authorities.There are the canisters I require.They weigh one hundred pounds each.I really don't want to overburden any of you, particularly on such an arduous journey, so I suggest that two men carry one canister.That will allow us to remove five of them, which should certainly be sufficient for my purposes.Shall we?"They paired off, Mulcifer and Rob taking the first canister and leaving through the opening.Angus and another man were next.Angus positioned the top of the six-foot-long canister under his left arm and followed Mulcifer and Rob, his partner behind him.Soon they were all winding their way up the gentle incline of the tunnel again.So this was the gas, Angus thought, the shite that Colin hadn't ever wanted to use.And here he was, disobeying his leader, not his clan chief, perhaps, but someone far more important to him.He felt like Benedict Arnold, another Judas for England.They had lost their purpose now, maybe their entire goal, and it was all the fault of this preening, poncy bastard who called himself Mulcifer, like he was some actual demon from the bowels of hell.Well, he wasn't a demon, whatever he was.He was alive, and anything that lived could be killed, if only someone had the will to do it.Maybe now was the time.Mulcifer seemed to be straining a wee bit under his load.It could be that he was concentrating so much on the physical that his guard was down.It would be so easy just to take out his gun and shoot the prick.He could at least try it.With his free right arm he reached into his jacket where his pistol nestled in its shoulder holster.It was one sweet gun, a Glock 21, capable of spitting out ten.45 slugs as fast as he could pull the trigger, which was pretty damned fast.He tentatively wrapped his fingers around the butt and was surprised to find that he could do it, especially with the thought so strong in his mind of killing Mulcifer.Now, if he could only take it out.He gave it a sharp tug, and it left the holster and rested in his hand, the metal warming to his touch.Then he brought it out and held it in front of him, against his chest.He'd have to be careful to avoid hitting Rob, but if Angus moved slightly to the side, he thought he could shoot past his friend easily enough.Angus had no doubt that he could do it now.The bastard's guard was down, he was sure of it.He could pull the trigger, and he would.He raised the gun, gritted his teeth, put pressure on the trigger.And the gun fired, slamming a slug into the back of Mulcifer's head, pushing him forward so that he dropped the canister with a ringing clatter.Rob dropped to the ground, and Angus kept firing, the bullets hitting Mulcifer in the neck, the head, the back, pushing him forward like a puppet, the bullets holding him up like strings as screams burst from him with each shot.Then the magazine was empty, and Mulcifer, with one final agonized wail, fell straight down onto his face, and Angus heard his skull crack against the stone floor.Mulcifer's fingers and feet twitched spastically, then stiffened, and he was still."I'll be damned," Angus whispered in the sudden stillness, slowly lowering his end of the canister to the ground.Not one of the men had drawn his own gun to defend Mulcifer, and now they just stood there, all holding their canisters except for Rob.He still lay where he had dropped, but he was looking from Mulcifer's riddled body to Angus's emptied pistol and back again, hope slowly growing on his face."I'll be goddamned," Angus said, a smile starting to crease his broad face as he walked slowly toward the creature lying on the stone floor of the tunnel.He stood above him, looking down at the back of his ruined head, the white shirt shredded by bullets.Then he crouched down next to him."You go to hell, you bastard," he said softly.Mulcifer turned over and smiled."You first, you chubby Scottish bitch."Angus felt bathed in ice.For a moment he could not move.Then he scuttled away from Mulcifer until he came up against the stone wall, still holding his doubly useless pistol in his hand.Mulcifer was getting to his feet now, and the damage that the bullets had done to his head and body seemed to be healing as Angus watched, the flesh knitting itself back together again seamlessly.Although the shirt remained torn, the blood that had stained it was vanishing, fading from crimson to pink to peach to the transparency of water."What did you think, Angus?" asked Mulcifer clearly and flawlessly from a throat that the bullets had torn apart."That you could kill me? That somehow your bullets could succeed where all others had failed? That you were Wallace or the Bruce or some other dead Scottish hero whose magic could slay the evil prince? And did you think that I would not be aware of your feelings, your hatred? I knew what you intended, you fat fool—I allowed you to draw that gun, to shoot me down.Because I wanted them all to see that doing so causes me no harm, no, not even discomfort.And one thing more—I want them to see what happens to those who disobey.""You." Angus felt his words choke in his throat, but he would not let this vile thing know how afraid he was of it.He pushed the words out, broad and burred and Scottish."You go and fook yoursel'.""The word," said Mulcifer dryly, "is 'fuck,' and it's one that gentlemen shouldn't use [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]