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"Running On the Razor's Edge"
May. 21st, 2022 07:06 am"Running On the Razor's Edge"
10/23-10/25/1982
I.
"What on Earth is that unholy racket?" demanded the Gentle One.
Sitting five feet away from the desk, Rook had been admiring how the Gentle One managed to keep himself shrouded and unseen without leaving the room entirely dark. A dim purple bulb in the center of his desk barely revealed his gloved hands when he placed them near it. Those hands were broad, powerful, with stubby fingers and the white cloth gloves appeared purple because of the light. The Gentle One had developed a manner of emphasizing his statements quite eloquently with gestures from those gloved hands.
Beyond arm's reach of the desk, a highbacked wooden chain was fixed to the floor. Set on its back behind the occupant's head was an identical purple bulb that cast the vaguest light over the person in the chair. Rook was not fond of this arrangement. One of the most gorgeous women freelancing in international crime, her looks were both a major tool and a weapon she had learned to use well. But, after dealing with the Gentle One, she realized he was not susceptible to female pulchritude.
She had heard the crashing and roaring of angry voices from next door at the same time her new employer had, and she was on her feet instantly. Rook was half French and half Japanese, a tall slim beauty with straight glossy black hair that reached to the small of her back. While in her early teens, she had earned several million dollars posing for magazine ads but there had always been a strong streak of larceny and a craving for adrenalin in her soul that guaranteed she would not live within the law for long. Rook smiled with her perfectly curved lips and said huskily, "I have the strangest feeling we both know who has intruded on your hideaway."
"The Haunt must die," whispered the mastermind in the shadows. "I have grown so weary of his theatrics. Confound the man!"
Smoothing down the silk of her tight wine-colored dress, Rook said, "I'll see what I can do. Calculate a suitable bonus for me." She snatched up a small leather handbag with a fine-linked gold chain from where it had been laid at her feet. Another of the tiny purple bulbs had lit up at the top of a door, illuminating a few inches just enough that she could find the handle without fumbling. Careful not to look back, as per her standing orders, Rook stepped into a large unfurnished room that in contrast was brightly lit by a naked 75-watt bulb in the ceiling. In that room, caught in a wild brawl, one man was holding his own against four bruisers.
Rook smiled indulgently. Of course it was the Haunt again. Who else? The four thugs working for the Gentle One were all big, muscular guys with lots of experience beating up people. Yet they had their hands full with just one man who shrugged off their punches and kicks while landing punishing blows in return. At the moment, one of the goons had his arms wrapped around the Haunt's legs and was trying to immobilize him while the other three took swings. It didn't seem to faze the loner.
The Haunt was a vivid figure in a royal blue suit with matching fedora and wrist-length gloves. He wore a spotless white shirt and bright red necktie, but the flamoyant wardrobe was marred by the fact that one sleeve of the suitjacket had been ripped loose at the shoulder seam and that his shirt had come loose from the waistband during the struggle. His cloth domino mask was the same royal blue, fitting as snugly as if it had been grafted on.
One simple uppercut from a gloved fist lifted one of the thugs clear of the floor. The Haunt did not seem to have any martial arts training, just simple roughhouse boxing, but it obviously worked for him. In another second, he had kicked loose of the man holding his legs and jumped away from the hired fighters. On the other side of the bare room was a large uncurtained window that showed only the moonless night sky. The Haunt swung around with his back to the view and grinned insolently. He was a remarkably good-looking young man, evidently only in his mid-twenties, with crisp black hair and a strong jawline a movie star would envy. That face was bruised a bit by the brawl but swelling had only just started to show.
"Gah-DAM," yelled one of the thugs. "What is that guy made of, anyway?"
"Come on, we'll get 'im from four sides at once. No matter how tough he is, he'll be crying for his mommy before we're done with him," said another.
"If you gentlemen would step aside...?" drawled Rook. Startled at finding her having come up right behind them while they were distracted, the four men hurried to get out of her way.
"Rook? Again? Hey, I love your hair that way," the Haunt called over.
"You big moose," she answered, "You will never ever learn." She straightened her arm, her slender hand filled with the little Beretta Bobcat she had plucked from her handbag. This was a tiny, easily concealed weapon and she compensated for its modest stopping power by using 22 Hollow Points and with severe accuracy. Five shots detonated in close succession, and three bright red splashes of blood geysered out from the front of the Haunt's white shirt. He was already tumbling back when the fourth bullet hit him low in the stomach and the fifth missed completely, then he crashed backward through the window behind him to disappear into darkness.
"He's gonna land in the Heewasauga," laughed one of the thugs. "There, hear the splash?"
Rook did not comment and there was no triumph in her dark eyes. With a loud sigh, she turned to glare at the four hired strongmen. "You clowns, didn't you see what he had in his hand?"
In a timid way that was comical coming from a huge brute with a flattened nose and scarred knuckles, one of them said, "No, Miss Rook."
"Just Rook. Not Miss Rook. Somehow that joker got a hold of what you were supposedly guarding. He had the Blue Rose Cameo when he went out the window!"
( the rest of the story )
10/23-10/25/1982
I.
"What on Earth is that unholy racket?" demanded the Gentle One.
Sitting five feet away from the desk, Rook had been admiring how the Gentle One managed to keep himself shrouded and unseen without leaving the room entirely dark. A dim purple bulb in the center of his desk barely revealed his gloved hands when he placed them near it. Those hands were broad, powerful, with stubby fingers and the white cloth gloves appeared purple because of the light. The Gentle One had developed a manner of emphasizing his statements quite eloquently with gestures from those gloved hands.
Beyond arm's reach of the desk, a highbacked wooden chain was fixed to the floor. Set on its back behind the occupant's head was an identical purple bulb that cast the vaguest light over the person in the chair. Rook was not fond of this arrangement. One of the most gorgeous women freelancing in international crime, her looks were both a major tool and a weapon she had learned to use well. But, after dealing with the Gentle One, she realized he was not susceptible to female pulchritude.
She had heard the crashing and roaring of angry voices from next door at the same time her new employer had, and she was on her feet instantly. Rook was half French and half Japanese, a tall slim beauty with straight glossy black hair that reached to the small of her back. While in her early teens, she had earned several million dollars posing for magazine ads but there had always been a strong streak of larceny and a craving for adrenalin in her soul that guaranteed she would not live within the law for long. Rook smiled with her perfectly curved lips and said huskily, "I have the strangest feeling we both know who has intruded on your hideaway."
"The Haunt must die," whispered the mastermind in the shadows. "I have grown so weary of his theatrics. Confound the man!"
Smoothing down the silk of her tight wine-colored dress, Rook said, "I'll see what I can do. Calculate a suitable bonus for me." She snatched up a small leather handbag with a fine-linked gold chain from where it had been laid at her feet. Another of the tiny purple bulbs had lit up at the top of a door, illuminating a few inches just enough that she could find the handle without fumbling. Careful not to look back, as per her standing orders, Rook stepped into a large unfurnished room that in contrast was brightly lit by a naked 75-watt bulb in the ceiling. In that room, caught in a wild brawl, one man was holding his own against four bruisers.
Rook smiled indulgently. Of course it was the Haunt again. Who else? The four thugs working for the Gentle One were all big, muscular guys with lots of experience beating up people. Yet they had their hands full with just one man who shrugged off their punches and kicks while landing punishing blows in return. At the moment, one of the goons had his arms wrapped around the Haunt's legs and was trying to immobilize him while the other three took swings. It didn't seem to faze the loner.
The Haunt was a vivid figure in a royal blue suit with matching fedora and wrist-length gloves. He wore a spotless white shirt and bright red necktie, but the flamoyant wardrobe was marred by the fact that one sleeve of the suitjacket had been ripped loose at the shoulder seam and that his shirt had come loose from the waistband during the struggle. His cloth domino mask was the same royal blue, fitting as snugly as if it had been grafted on.
One simple uppercut from a gloved fist lifted one of the thugs clear of the floor. The Haunt did not seem to have any martial arts training, just simple roughhouse boxing, but it obviously worked for him. In another second, he had kicked loose of the man holding his legs and jumped away from the hired fighters. On the other side of the bare room was a large uncurtained window that showed only the moonless night sky. The Haunt swung around with his back to the view and grinned insolently. He was a remarkably good-looking young man, evidently only in his mid-twenties, with crisp black hair and a strong jawline a movie star would envy. That face was bruised a bit by the brawl but swelling had only just started to show.
"Gah-DAM," yelled one of the thugs. "What is that guy made of, anyway?"
"Come on, we'll get 'im from four sides at once. No matter how tough he is, he'll be crying for his mommy before we're done with him," said another.
"If you gentlemen would step aside...?" drawled Rook. Startled at finding her having come up right behind them while they were distracted, the four men hurried to get out of her way.
"Rook? Again? Hey, I love your hair that way," the Haunt called over.
"You big moose," she answered, "You will never ever learn." She straightened her arm, her slender hand filled with the little Beretta Bobcat she had plucked from her handbag. This was a tiny, easily concealed weapon and she compensated for its modest stopping power by using 22 Hollow Points and with severe accuracy. Five shots detonated in close succession, and three bright red splashes of blood geysered out from the front of the Haunt's white shirt. He was already tumbling back when the fourth bullet hit him low in the stomach and the fifth missed completely, then he crashed backward through the window behind him to disappear into darkness.
"He's gonna land in the Heewasauga," laughed one of the thugs. "There, hear the splash?"
Rook did not comment and there was no triumph in her dark eyes. With a loud sigh, she turned to glare at the four hired strongmen. "You clowns, didn't you see what he had in his hand?"
In a timid way that was comical coming from a huge brute with a flattened nose and scarred knuckles, one of them said, "No, Miss Rook."
"Just Rook. Not Miss Rook. Somehow that joker got a hold of what you were supposedly guarding. He had the Blue Rose Cameo when he went out the window!"
( the rest of the story )
