"Right Between the Eyes"
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dochermes"Right Between the Eyes"
(10/15/1977)
8/30/1984
I.
The rather gauche hotel room, with too much chrome and glass and white fur carpeting, still had the advantage of being air-conditioned well. The Dire Wolf knew only as an intellectual item that Miami was a humid ninety-three degrees outside. Even in his all black rig of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he was perfectly comfortable. Perhaps even a bit chilly. He was sitting relaxed on an ornate white-enameled chair with an open carved back. He was also gazing calmly into the barrel of a shiny chrome .45 revolver with pearl grips.
Jeremy Bane's pale grey eyes were startling against a face freshly tanned since his arrival here three days ago. They were always unsettling but now they seemed to jump out of that darker background. He watched the gunman five feet away from his with a detachment, perhaps even dismissal, which under the circumstances was hard to explain. Fuego sat in a similar chair but one turned reverse, so he leaned his elbows on the back of it, with his legs spread. He held that flashy pistol in a hand that was dead steady, and he returned Bane's stare with irritation and impatience.
Fuego was not his real name, of course. Bane knew that Raoul Francisco Rudolfo was thirty-eight years old and had been a professional assassin for the past eight of those years. For two years before that, he had called himself a freedom fighter who killed for slogans rather than the cold hard cash he came to prefer. Physically, he was about the same size as Bane, a lean six-footer. But Fuego's eyes were dark brown and his curly hair black. He had a thin neat mustache and long sideburns that ended in points. Add too-tight white trousers and a flashy floral print silk shirt, and the image was complete.
"My men say you did not bring a gun, mister."
"Why bother? They would just take it and maybe hurt themselves."
"Hah! I bet you wish you had it now, eh?"
"I don't need it," Bane said.
Fuego did not know how to react. "You know who I am. You come here looking for me."
"I was actually in Miami on other business. Big game. But I figured, as long as I'm here, why not take care of you too?"
"Now I KNOW you crazy! I have been a big man for a long time now. Back home my name is enough to make strong men weak in their knees and cold in the stomach."
"I know, I know," Bane said. "You've been an executioner for the Cuban secret police since 1976. You've also tracked down and killed Cuban refugees whose knowledge might have threatened Castro's regime. Dr Luis Rojas, for example."
"And what is that to you? How is it any of your business?"
Now Bane straightened up and leaned forward. His eyebrows lowered as he smiled slightly. "Oh, he was a friend and colleague of Kenneth Dred. His death hurt Mr Dred and I figured I would even the score if I ever got a chance."
"You can try," Fuego laughed. "Now tell me before you die, who are you? Who is going to the angels this morning?"
"Fair enough. My name is Jeremy Bane. I am the chairman of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Does that mean anything to you?"
"What, you think I'm stupid? I read about. You are ghostbusters in New York City. You chase monsters and demons-- or so you say."
"True enough. We do fight the Midnight War and we do capture particularly dangerous or elusive criminals. But there's more to it than that. You see, Raoul, there is a secret lodge where the wisest human beings train men and women to be their knights in the real world. This school has existed for thirty thousand years and its secrets can turn ordinary people into near supermen. I study there. I am a knight of Tel Shai."
Fuego scowled, his eyes almost closing. "You know how much I understand of that? Nothing. Nothing! I think most likely you are not right in the head. Maybe chasing those ghosts has damaged you."
"This is a policy decision I have to make," Bane said as if to himself. "I want to keep the KDF from having anything to do with politics, national or international. We have our own agenda. That's why I didn't go into Cuba to take you from the secret police and maybe break them down."
"Break them DOWN?!" Fuego almost choking. "Who the hell you think you are? Listen to me. You see this gun. I have shot twenty-three men with this gun alone. Altogether my score is sixty-seven. They each die and they each die with a bullet right between the eyes. You hear me, crazy man? Pow! Right between the eyes."
"I'm glad you came to America again. It solves my moral dilemma," Bane said thoughtfully. "I'm not going to kill you myself, although that would be simplest. No, I have to turn you over to Department 21 Black. You have murdered American citizens on American soil. Personally, I hope you get the death penalty but there is always the chance you will be traded at some point. Hostages or one of our spies."
For a long second, Fuego was speechless. He could not believe this muy loco was sitting there less than six feet away from a loaded gun pointed at him and he was babbling this nonsense. As if he were in control of the situation instead of a second away from death. And yet.. Fuego looked at the cool, self-assured grey eyes and he knew with dreadful certainty that this man was not crazy, that he had some winning trick up his sleeve. What? He couldn't imagine.
Suddenly he felt mortally threatened by this quiet young American whose eyes held a distinct predatory glint. He decided to shoot. He would kill this weird man and return home at once.
In the split-second it took Fuego's finger to close one-sixteenth of an inch on the trigger, Bane had crossed five feet in a fencer's lunge. Faster than any cobra that ever struck, the Dire Wolf hit Fuego hard with the single knuckle of the forefinger of his left hand. That knuckle nailed against the nerve center above the bridge of the nose. The assassin yelped and fell unconscious with the unfired .45 still in his hand. He hit the floor as if dead himself.
Straightening up, Jeremy Bane saw the slight depression his strike had made in the man's forehead and he looked down at the knuckle he had used. "Pow!" he whispered. "Right between the eyes."
10/15/1977- Rev 4/14/2013
(10/15/1977)
8/30/1984
I.
The rather gauche hotel room, with too much chrome and glass and white fur carpeting, still had the advantage of being air-conditioned well. The Dire Wolf knew only as an intellectual item that Miami was a humid ninety-three degrees outside. Even in his all black rig of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he was perfectly comfortable. Perhaps even a bit chilly. He was sitting relaxed on an ornate white-enameled chair with an open carved back. He was also gazing calmly into the barrel of a shiny chrome .45 revolver with pearl grips.
Jeremy Bane's pale grey eyes were startling against a face freshly tanned since his arrival here three days ago. They were always unsettling but now they seemed to jump out of that darker background. He watched the gunman five feet away from his with a detachment, perhaps even dismissal, which under the circumstances was hard to explain. Fuego sat in a similar chair but one turned reverse, so he leaned his elbows on the back of it, with his legs spread. He held that flashy pistol in a hand that was dead steady, and he returned Bane's stare with irritation and impatience.
Fuego was not his real name, of course. Bane knew that Raoul Francisco Rudolfo was thirty-eight years old and had been a professional assassin for the past eight of those years. For two years before that, he had called himself a freedom fighter who killed for slogans rather than the cold hard cash he came to prefer. Physically, he was about the same size as Bane, a lean six-footer. But Fuego's eyes were dark brown and his curly hair black. He had a thin neat mustache and long sideburns that ended in points. Add too-tight white trousers and a flashy floral print silk shirt, and the image was complete.
"My men say you did not bring a gun, mister."
"Why bother? They would just take it and maybe hurt themselves."
"Hah! I bet you wish you had it now, eh?"
"I don't need it," Bane said.
Fuego did not know how to react. "You know who I am. You come here looking for me."
"I was actually in Miami on other business. Big game. But I figured, as long as I'm here, why not take care of you too?"
"Now I KNOW you crazy! I have been a big man for a long time now. Back home my name is enough to make strong men weak in their knees and cold in the stomach."
"I know, I know," Bane said. "You've been an executioner for the Cuban secret police since 1976. You've also tracked down and killed Cuban refugees whose knowledge might have threatened Castro's regime. Dr Luis Rojas, for example."
"And what is that to you? How is it any of your business?"
Now Bane straightened up and leaned forward. His eyebrows lowered as he smiled slightly. "Oh, he was a friend and colleague of Kenneth Dred. His death hurt Mr Dred and I figured I would even the score if I ever got a chance."
"You can try," Fuego laughed. "Now tell me before you die, who are you? Who is going to the angels this morning?"
"Fair enough. My name is Jeremy Bane. I am the chairman of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Does that mean anything to you?"
"What, you think I'm stupid? I read about. You are ghostbusters in New York City. You chase monsters and demons-- or so you say."
"True enough. We do fight the Midnight War and we do capture particularly dangerous or elusive criminals. But there's more to it than that. You see, Raoul, there is a secret lodge where the wisest human beings train men and women to be their knights in the real world. This school has existed for thirty thousand years and its secrets can turn ordinary people into near supermen. I study there. I am a knight of Tel Shai."
Fuego scowled, his eyes almost closing. "You know how much I understand of that? Nothing. Nothing! I think most likely you are not right in the head. Maybe chasing those ghosts has damaged you."
"This is a policy decision I have to make," Bane said as if to himself. "I want to keep the KDF from having anything to do with politics, national or international. We have our own agenda. That's why I didn't go into Cuba to take you from the secret police and maybe break them down."
"Break them DOWN?!" Fuego almost choking. "Who the hell you think you are? Listen to me. You see this gun. I have shot twenty-three men with this gun alone. Altogether my score is sixty-seven. They each die and they each die with a bullet right between the eyes. You hear me, crazy man? Pow! Right between the eyes."
"I'm glad you came to America again. It solves my moral dilemma," Bane said thoughtfully. "I'm not going to kill you myself, although that would be simplest. No, I have to turn you over to Department 21 Black. You have murdered American citizens on American soil. Personally, I hope you get the death penalty but there is always the chance you will be traded at some point. Hostages or one of our spies."
For a long second, Fuego was speechless. He could not believe this muy loco was sitting there less than six feet away from a loaded gun pointed at him and he was babbling this nonsense. As if he were in control of the situation instead of a second away from death. And yet.. Fuego looked at the cool, self-assured grey eyes and he knew with dreadful certainty that this man was not crazy, that he had some winning trick up his sleeve. What? He couldn't imagine.
Suddenly he felt mortally threatened by this quiet young American whose eyes held a distinct predatory glint. He decided to shoot. He would kill this weird man and return home at once.
In the split-second it took Fuego's finger to close one-sixteenth of an inch on the trigger, Bane had crossed five feet in a fencer's lunge. Faster than any cobra that ever struck, the Dire Wolf hit Fuego hard with the single knuckle of the forefinger of his left hand. That knuckle nailed against the nerve center above the bridge of the nose. The assassin yelped and fell unconscious with the unfired .45 still in his hand. He hit the floor as if dead himself.
Straightening up, Jeremy Bane saw the slight depression his strike had made in the man's forehead and he looked down at the knuckle he had used. "Pow!" he whispered. "Right between the eyes."
10/15/1977- Rev 4/14/2013
