Diabolical Page 2

  That left a third possibility. Hatcher checked the time once more, then gestured to the waitress who had passed him the note. New gal with blonde hair, been there less than a month. Always smiling at him. Had a way of filling a T-shirt and cutoffs that made her look like sex was her business. She so resembled the woman he’d moved out to L.A. for—only to have her take off on him a couple of months ago—that he had to struggle not to call her the wrong name.

  “Lori, if Denny comes looking for me, tell him something came up and I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  Or not, he told himself, thinking about how the bar’s name really did nail it.

  The woman flashed him an okay sign, nodding as she wiped down a table.

  Hatcher walked out through the patio and crossed the strand. He stopped a few feet past the pavement, angling himself to peer into the alley next to the bar.

  Most of the buildings along the beachfront were adjacent to one another—side walls touching if not outright shared—due to square footage being such a premium on the strip. Even so, gaps popped up here and there, and one of them was along the north side of the bar. The neighboring building was a long, flat structure divided into a T-shirt mart and a smoothie shop. There was a narrow alleyway between it and the bar. The space was blocked off by a wrought-iron gate. Other than some garbage cans, it looked empty.

  Hatcher moved in closer, checked the chain. It was wrapped around the gate, fastening the edge to an iron post attached to the wall. A large steel lock connected two of the links. A twisting loop of barbed wire sagged along the gate’s top like a thorned slinky.

  The alley was used for trash. The entry on the opposite side was blocked by a wooden fence. The fence, like the gate, was high and barbed so vagrants and drifters couldn’t climb over and camp out after-hours; at least, not without expending serious effort. Unless someone was going to scale one of them and negotiate the wire, the only way in was through the bar itself. And the side door always remained locked.

  An ambush was beginning to look unlikely. Unless he was missing something.

  Hatcher stared at the neighboring building. Unlike the bar, it was only one story, with a flat roof surrounded by a parapet. A bit too high to see over from where Hatcher stood, and he doubted improving his angle would help. If he backed farther out onto the beach, the row of palm trees bordering the path would block his line of sight. And the section of wall extending above the roofline provided plenty of concealment even if it turned out the trees didn’t. He would need a higher vantage point.

  There were two second-story windows on the bar’s alley wall that were useless, covered by a giant banner advertising medical marijuana for a place three or four blocks up, earning Denny a few hundred extra bucks a week. The bar did have a balcony facing the beach, but the alley side of it was jammed with busted patio tables and beach umbrellas. It would take a bit of noisy effort to make room for a view. And it was getting close to midnight. Four balls.

  If someone was up there, using the parapet for concealment, they’d be expecting Hatcher to come into the alley, so their attention would be directed there. They were likely to be hunched down right behind the wall adjacent to it, waiting to hear the door open, checking their watch. That alley would command their attention.

  Hatcher scanned the twin storefronts, sliding his gaze to his left. There was no alley on the opposite side of the adjacent building, but near that end somebody had parked a motorcycle. Even in the wan moonlight, he could see the words Harley-Davidson written across the large gas tank in stylish lettering. Jet-black paint, with red-and-white script and striping. California license plate.

  The promenade was relatively clear. To the north, he could just make out the large geometric shapes representing a bodybuilder poised to dead lift, an abstract landmark forming the gate to Muscle Beach. A few pedestrians were loitering in the distance beyond that, but with the shops closed and the sun long down, the walkway was all but deserted. Hatcher wasn’t sure who the motorcycle belonged to, but it almost had to be someone in the bar. Maybe even GQ Danger Mouse himself, a possibility that made the decision about what to do next easier.

  The seat of the bike looked just high enough. A glance in each direction, and Hatcher starting moving swiftly toward it, adjusting his trajectory along the way, checking the bar and rooftop one more time. He broke into a trot for the last few feet, took two running steps and used the third to launch himself off the bike’s seat. Stretching his hands out as far and high as they would go, he managed to hook his fingers over the edge of the cement parapet and hang on. He pulled himself up the rest of the way with his arms until he could lean his chest across the top, was forced to reach his arm down the other side of the wall to get a better grip and swing his leg up.

  But something reached for him instead, grabbing him by the throat.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said a cartoonlike voice, high and squeaky.

  Hatcher felt himself get dragged over the edge of the parapet onto the roof, head jammed forward, unable to look up. His neck was being crushed and he couldn’t breathe. The gravelly surface of the roof passed beneath him, the tips of his shoes scraping behind him as he tried to get footing. A gargantuan forearm blocked most of his view. He clawed and punched at it feebly, the unexpected constriction of his arteries and windpipe sapping his strength.

  “They said you’d be here, few minutes before midnight, and whatd’ya know? Here you are! Un-fuckin’-believable.”

  The pressure was building in his eye sockets, and the stranglehold around his neck made his head seem on the verge of popping right off. Thinking about anything other than getting air to his lungs and oxygen to his brain was next to impossible. But despite the chaos in his skull, he remembered feeling arms this steely on him once before, remembered being in the grip of something similarly massive, similarly strong. And that voice, taunting him. Even with his thoughts scrambled, there was no mistaking it.

  “Heard you got out . . . Took a while to track you to Cali. Knew I’d find you eventually. You didn’t think I’d forget our little score, did ya?”

  Hatcher couldn’t speak, had no desire to. Getting air was all that mattered. His head was swimming, the tension in his skull unbearable. His chest felt ready to split open.

  “Read all the papers, saw you’d managed to get away from those crazy broads and mess Valentine’s shit all up. Realized you took care of that cop Maloney, too, when I saw he turned up on a slab. But didn’t see one mention about ol’ Lucas Sherman anywhere. So I shook Valentine’s mouthpiece down for a couple grand and got outta Dodge.”

  Sherman raised him by the throat, clasping his other hand around Hatcher’s neck. He managed to lift Hatcher completely off the ground, so that his feet weren’t even touching.

  “I have to think of you every friggin’ time I look in the mirror, you know that? I got three different rips on my scalp cause a’ you. And I have to see them every goddamn morning. That’s why I decided I was going to have to get some payback. And you know what they say. Paybacks are a bitch. Bitch.”

  Consciousness seemed to be drifting away, floating across a growing chasm, barely maintaining contact with his mind. A survival instinct was telling him he had to do something, and that he had to do it within seconds or he’d pass out. Passing out meant dying. It was as simple as that.

  Problem was, at the moment, passing out seemed like the only thing he could do.

  Hatcher forced himself to relax, to let his muscles go loose. He pushed his right leg back, felt himself swing a bit, pushed it back farther. Then he brought it forward in an arcing kick, jerking it with his whole body.

  The instep of his foot found its target. A square shot right between the legs.

  Sherman barely flinched. Hatcher felt the clamp of fingers tighten around his neck.

  “Ever since that little number the state did on me, that whole chemical-castration thing, it’s just not the same, ya know? Shot to the nuts now is kind of like getting frogged. All it does is piss me off.�
�

  As if to put an exclamation point on it, Sherman lifted Hatcher higher and slammed him down onto the roof. Tiny shards of gravel stabbed into the back of Hatcher’s head and shoulders, though the sting of them seemed unimportant compared to the desperate need to breathe.

  Fighting off a panic reflex, Hatcher mustered enough strength to punch at Sherman’s elbow, brought down a hard chop to his forearm. He struck again and again, riding a last gasp of adrenaline, trying to find a pressure point, to weaken the man’s grip. It was like hitting padded granite.

  “Been on a kick-ass ’roid regimen, new stuff someone turned me on to. Comes in through Mexico. That, and daily doses of HGH. Been pumping twice a day, harder than ever. The whole time, looking forward to this.”

  He slapped a palm over Hatcher’s mouth and nose, pressing hard, leaning his massive frame forward to put all of his weight into his arms, pinning Hatcher down. The other hand kept squeezing Hatcher’s throat.

  Deprived of all air and lacking blood flow, Hatcher’s vision began to fade, collapsing into a shrinking tunnel. Ambient noise grew muffled, the sound of his own pulse filled his ears.

  Sherman was simply too strong, stronger than he had been, and bigger, too. Way stronger, way bigger. Hatcher felt himself start to flail, arms and legs moving frantically, without focus. His hands clawed fiercely at Sherman’s skin, raking strips of it, to no avail. Only the pain in his upper back and scalp, the scores of sharp points of gravel digging into the skin like talons, enabled him to cling to consciousness. But not for much longer.

  The pain. A thought flickered, sparked by the stabbing pricks in his back.

  He threw his arm out, slamming his hand against the rocky roof. Bits of gravel bit into his flesh as he clawed through them. His fingers finally settled on one the size of a stick of gum. It had a thin edge. It would have to do.

  Barely cognizant of his actions, Hatcher whipped his hand back toward the hand clenched around his throat. He pressed the edge of the rock hard against the inside of Sherman’s wrist, just beneath the meat of his palm. Then he slashed upward.

  Everything finally went dark. For a moment, darkness was all there was, all it seemed there would ever be. But then Hatcher heard something echo through the liquid-stuffiness of his ears, something like a screaming string of cuss words.

  Blood surged into his head, filling it, overwhelming him with vertigo. He realized he could breathe again about the same time he realized he was no longer being choked. His skull felt engorged. His limbs felt numb and useless. He gasped for air as he tried to roll over and vomit.

  “Goddamn motherfucker!”

  Hatcher finished retching and blinked several times. He looked over to see Sherman holding his forearm out in front his body, cradling it in his other hand, wide-eyed. His flesh was split from just below his wrist to roughly a few inches short of the crook of his elbow. Blood was streaming out and spilling onto the roof.

  “You little . . . son of a . . . you cut me! Look at this! You cut me!”

  Still struggling for air, Hatcher crawled on all fours toward the nearest edge of the roof, coughing. He collapsed when he reached it. It took some effort to prop his shoulders against the wall. The concrete was hard and unforgiving against the back of his head. Gravel shards dug into his lower back, dozens of slivers stuck to his palms. Their sharp tips scratched at his throat as he tried to rub it. He was still having trouble getting enough air. He felt ready to vomit again any moment.

  Sherman was looking down at his wound. The lower half of his forearm was drenched in blood. Thick crimson sheets of it rolled off like paint. He flexed his fist several times, causing more red to flow.

  “This is gonna scar bad,” he said, tilting his head to glare at Hatcher before his expression gave way to a menacing smile. “That’s another one. Ya know, before I was just gonna choke you out. Now I’m gonna rip that sorry pimple of a head of yours off while you’re still breathing. Then I think I’ll shove it up your ass.”

  One chance, Hatcher told himself. That was all he was going to get.

  “What’d you say?” Sherman asked.

  Hatcher tried to clear his throat, swallowing painfully, the muscles in his neck bruised and raw.

  “I said, did you get that voice in prison? Must’ve been a popular guy, from the sound of it.”

  Sherman’s smile widened. He wiped his hand on his jeans, then took off his shirt and wrapped it tight around his lower arm, tying it off.

  “I’ll give you this, ass-wipe. You got balls.”

  “Too bad you don’t, Princess.”

  The smile remained on the big man’s face, but the eyes were narrower now, hate and rage streaming through the slits the way water blasts through a pressure hose. Hatcher let his body settle lower, wishing he had a better plan, but thinking, times like these, you gotta take what the other guy gives you.

  He took a breath, still trying to work through the pain in his throat. He forced himself to focus. He doesn’t protect his groin.

  Sherman crossed the roof toward him, flexing that hand several more times. The shirt was already saturated with blood.

  Even in his dazed state, Hatcher couldn’t help but notice that Sherman’s chest was just plain enormous, two giant peachy slabs of polished marble, squared off at the edges, the abs below them rippling like large stones implanted beneath the skin. Sherman was more than three hundred pounds, easy, and not an ounce of visible fat anywhere on him.

  One chance, Hatcher reminded himself.

  Sherman bent forward as he came to a stop, straddling Hatcher’s body, thrusting his arms down to snag Hatcher’s throat. Hatcher slid down along the gravel as he did, his hips almost directly below Sherman’s, his body between the man’s ankles. He waited for Sherman’s knees to bend, feeling those viselike hands wrap themselves around his neck again. The pain was immediate and excruciating.

  Just . . .

  A . . .

  Little . . .

  Lower . . .

  Now.

  In one continuous motion, Hatcher pulled his knees in toward his chest, curling his back, and planted his heels firmly into Sherman’s crotch. Then he exploded his quadriceps into a full extension.

  And prayed he had enough strength left.

  Jesus, this guy is heavy.

  Hatcher’s legs buckled, but he continued to press hard and Sherman unsteadily rose into the air. For a fraction of a second, Sherman hung there, balanced, and Hatcher thought he was going to come crashing down on top of him. But then he let go of Hatcher’s throat, throwing his hands onto the wall to catch himself before he slammed into it, and Hatcher was able to complete the move by rolling back, pressing against the gravel with his elbows, using inertia, extending his body and legs as far as he could. Sherman’s body started to flip and he pressed himself up, a gymnast on a pommel horse, almost managing to break the momentum, until one arm slipped forward and he toppled over the edge.

  Hatcher heard a thump a second later, the sharp crack of bone hitting pavement mixed in.

  Massaging his throat, Hatcher lay there for a count of twenty, waiting for his airways to loosen, allowing his lungs to fill with air and his heart rate to settle. When he was certain the stars he was seeing were all in the sky, he pulled himself up and leaned over the parapet.

  Sherman’s body was laid out like a crime scene reenactment. The side of his head was red and pulpy. One arm was resting on its elbow, hand in the air, sort of floating in a seesaw movement back and forth. His head lolled vaguely to one side.

  Crouched next to him was the guy from the bar. The look on his face struck Hatcher as one of professional intrigue, a biggame hunter examining a felled beast not his own, his eyes fixed in detached interest as he took in the size and majesty of the exotic creature stretched out before him. He gave a slight shake to his head, and what looked like a bemused chuckle, before looking up at Hatcher and pulling his cheeks into a smile.

  “Nice work,” he said. He jutted his chin, gesturing with it. “
Check your six. Third of a click.”

  Hatcher twisted to peer over his shoulder. Beyond the roof of the building to his rear, across Pacific Street, two people stood on a motel balcony, a man and a woman, watching from a third-floor railing that overlooked the street. The man was wearing a suit, tan, expensive-looking. He was trim, with short, silvery hair. The woman was younger, blonde, wearing a gray skirt and dark blouse. They were too far away for Hatcher to make out any other details about them, except that they had clearly been there for a while.

  But he was pretty sure he recognized the woman.

  The man in the suit seemed to nod in his direction, then turned to walk away. The woman lingered a moment before following. They disappeared into a nearby room.

  Hatcher looked back down to the walkway. Sherman was still there. So was the other guy.

  “You’re wondering who I am,” the guy said. “Friend or foe.”

  Hatcher coughed, his throat still sore. He didn’t think he had another fight in him, and certainly not if it was against someone skilled. Or armed. Or both. “Now that you mention it.”

  “You can just call me Mr. E.”

  Hearing it aloud gave the moniker new meaning. Hatcher’s gaze drifted over to the Harley. He could see the license plate. MRE HD.

  “Cute.”

  “I thought so. So, do you want me to finish him off for you?”

  Before Hatcher had a chance to process the question, Mr. E snapped his arm straight, pointing it out and down at an angle. The move triggered a mechanism up his sleeve that released a large dual-bladed knife into his hand, a smooth handle in the middle. The man twirled the blade baton-style, weaving it through his fingers back and forth. Then he spun it in the air like a pinwheel, loosely centered against his palm, and dropped suddenly to a knee, catching the blade so that the tip of one end was poised directly over Sherman’s chest, maybe a centimeter above it. Maybe less. It didn’t look to Hatcher like the guy he knew as Mr. E had even broken eye contact during the move.