Ghosts of Manhattan (5 page)

The alleyway was only a hundred or so yards away. At street level, the sound of the car engine was a constant background growl. He'd use that to his advantage, muffling his footsteps as he crept closer to the mouth of the alleyway. He liked having the element of surprise on his side; it usually meant he avoided getting shot.

The Ghost drew opposite the parked vehicle, trying to ascertain whether there was anybody inside. He guessed the driver would be waiting behind the wheel, keeping the engine running, ready for the others to make their getaway when they were done.

Whatever was going down, he knew it involved the mob. Only the Roman's men could afford an armored car like the one across the street from him, and only the Roman's men would ever have a use for it. The thought rankled him. Dealing with the Roman's lackeys was like dealing with the symptoms of an infection. Sooner or later, he'd need to root out the cause of the infection itself. For now, though, it sounded like someone needed his help.

The Ghost crossed silently toward the car, as graceful as a cat sneaking up on a bird. Careful to avoid any of the viewing slots that had been cut into the armor plating, he peered over the roof of the vehicle at the scene unfolding on the other side.

A middle-aged man in a shopkeeper's apron was on the ground. He twitched unconsciously as two men in black suits carried on with their indiscriminate assault, kicking him viciously in the face, chest, and stomach. Their victim had long since lost the will to defend himself and now his arms and legs were splayed out on the damp flagstones as he silently accepted each blow. The two men in black suits were laughing with each other as they went about their business. It was clear to the Ghost almost immediately what was happening. He'd heard from others that the Roman had started a protection racket, and either this man had bravely refused to pay up, or else he couldn't afford to meet his payment.

Whatever the case, he didn't deserve the kind of treatment he was receiving at the hands of the two goons.

He stood back from the car, flexing his gloved fingers and stretching his neck muscles. He could feel the tension in his shoulders as he prepared himself for a fight. In and out. He didn't plan to linger. He'd take down the two stooges and then be gone with the unconscious shopkeeper before the driver had chance even to consider pulling a pistol.

He glanced at the weapon that was folded away beneath his right arm. The long brass barrel gleamed in the moonlight. For a moment he considered shooting the two men from a distance, safe behind the cover of the car. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. He couldn't kill in cold blood. He had to let them shoot first. That was his code, the thing that separated him from them. If they shot first, they died. For now, his fists would have to do the talking.

The Ghost glanced around him to make sure there was no one else nearby. Then, without further ado, he heaved himself up onto the roof of the car, his black trench coat billowing around him in a sudden gust. Almost simultaneously, the two mobsters turned to look at the interloper. Their kicking ceased.

"Hey, Mickey, it's that freak who shot up the guys at the bank." This from the goon on the left. The man's hand went inside his coat, searching for a pistol. "Let's plug him."

The other man, wide-eyed, looked less convinced by this course of action and remained standing, rooted to the spot, staring up at the imposing figure of the vigilante atop the armored car.

"Mickey!" The stooge's pistol barked loudly as he roared at his companion, just as the Ghost dived forward, swinging his arm out to catch the gunman beneath the chin. The man went down, heavily, his weapon skittering away across the sidewalk. He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his throat. The Ghost didn't have time to worry about what the gunman was going to do next, however, as the report of the gun had somehow stirred the other man-Mickey-back to life. He swung at the Ghost, his fist glancing painfully off the vigilante's jaw as he turned quickly to face his new opponent. A lesser man would have gone down from such a blow, but the Ghost was ready for it and simply shook his head, steadying himself for the next attack.

Mickey was clearly a boxer. The Ghost could tell from the way he handled himself, from his stance and the power and accuracy of his blows. But the Ghost had boxed during his army years and knew what was coming. A swift jab with the left, a hook with the right, and the mobster was reeling. The Ghost brought him down with a sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the garbage bins heaped in the alleyway beside the store.

The Ghost glanced back at the first goon, the gunman, but he was still on his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath. The shopkeeper was still out cold, and blood was pooling around his head from a number of nasty-looking wounds. His nose was clearly broken, smeared halfway across his face, and a cursory glance suggested his cheekbone had been cracked, as his face was swollen and sagging. The Ghost knew that there would be internal injuries too; the man would be lucky to pull through after the beating the Roman's men had given him.

From behind him, the Ghost heard the sound of the car door creaking open. The driver. He hadn't been quick enough. He swept round, bringing his arms up in defense but expecting the impact of a bullet at any second. But the sight that greeted him was not at all what he was expecting.

If there was a driver, he was still seated in the front of the armored car, and his door remained closed. Rather, the two doors at the rear of the vehicle had sprung open, and two enormous figures had emerged. They were huge, both at least seven feet tall, and dressed in long overcoats and trilby hats. Their faces were lost in shadow. They walked with a shambling gait that did not look entirely natural.

The Ghost stepped back, swinging his right arm in a circle so that the long barrel of his flechette gun ratcheted up into place along his forearm. His breath steamed before his face in the cold night air. The two men were slowly shambling toward him, menacingly, but so far their arms remained limp at their sides. They showed no sign of bearing any weapons.

The Ghost wasn't about to let himself get pinned in the alleyway by these giants, especially as the two goons were stirring. The odds were suddenly not in his favor. He decided his best recourse was to take them by surprise: charge them and try to smash his way through to the street beyond. At least then he'd be out in the open and he'd have more chance of getting away if he needed to bolt. But then there was the shopkeeper ...

He had to act. He'd fight the men, but he needed to change the odds. Steeling himself, he charged, aiming squarely for the space between the two giants, hoping to knock them aside as he rushed past. He'd then fling himself over the armored car and duck for cover while he worked out his next move.

The Ghost dipped his head and presented his shoulders to the two men. Too late he saw them close ranks, and he was unable to stop his forward momentum. He crashed into the mobsters at full speed, still hopeful that his weight would carry him between them. But instead he rebounded painfully, his head and shoulders smarting as if he had charged into a solid wall. He fell to the ground, shaking his head groggily, his nostrils filled with the scent of damp earth.

Regaining his senses just in time, he rolled to the left as a powerful fist came slamming down, narrowly missing his head. He hit the alley wall and sprang to his feet, using the brickwork to steady himself. Who were these men? He'd barely had time to ask himself the question when another fist came flying at him, and he had to duck to one side to avoid its crushing impact. It crashed into the wall where he'd been standing with enough force to shatter all of the bones in its owner's hand, but the man seemed hardly to notice, simply wheeling around in an ungainly fashion to take another swing at the vigilante. He didn't even grunt with the pain or the exertion.

The Ghost kicked out, catching one of the giants in the midriff. The mobster didn't react, didn't even acknowledge the blow, whilst the Ghost came away with a sharp pain in his leg, as if his booted foot had just encountered solid iron. He could hear one of the goons laughing in the background somewhere. "Hey, Mickey, looks like the Roman was right about these things, eh?"

Trapped against the wall, the two giants closing in on him, the Ghost decided that the only thing he could do was shoot his way out. He flicked his right wrist and the pneumatic trigger for the flechette gun slid into his palm. He squeezed, showering first one of the lumbering figures, then the other, in a hail of tiny steel blades. He heard the flechettes strike home, embedding themselves in the giants' torsos with a rapid series of dull thuds. But again, his efforts appeared to have no effect on the men, and they continued their assault regardless. He had no idea what the things were, but it was becoming clear to him that they weren't human. There was no way a human being could have withstood a spray of steel blades like that and carried on walking.

Unsure what else he could do, the Ghost tried to duck away again, but one of the giants' fists struck home, powering deep into his stomach. He doubled over, clutching at his belly, unable to stop himself from slumping to the ground. All of the wind had been driven out of his lungs by the impact of the blow. Gasping, he glanced up, realizing with horror that, beneath their hats, these giants-these monsters-had no faces.

The creature loomed over him. The Ghost thrashed out in desperation, clawing at its throat. His fingers sank into something soft and pliable and he tore at it, gouging a handful of the stuff in an effort to stop the giant in its tracks. With dismay he realized the monster was entirely unaffected by the action. He glanced down at his hand. His fist was filled with soft moss and crumbling earth. He was filled with a sudden sense of creeping terror. The things were formed from clods of clay; golems in the shape of men, somehow animated to create deadly foot soldiers, and dressed in coats and hats for disguise.

He raised his arm in defense as the golem reared up again, ready to strike another blow, and he saw that he'd exposed a strut of gleaming brass where its throat should have been, a metal skeleton buried deep beneath its earthy flesh.

He knew then it was over. There was nothing he could do to stop these things. None of his weapons would work. He could see no way out. He waited for the killing blow, baubles of light dancing before his eyes as he tried to suck oxygen back into his lungs.

"That's enough." It was the voice of the goon who had shot at him earlier. The Ghost looked up, still gasping for breath, to see the two golems retreating to make way for the crook. "I want the pleasure of finishing this one myself."

The man came into view, a snide expression on his thin, pale face. He brandished his gun in front of him. The Ghost realized the goon must have retrieved it whilst he was engaged with the moss men. "So, you're the guy who took out Bobby Hendriks, eh? Don't look too much to me." He laughed, glancing over at Mickey.

That was his fatal mistake. The Ghost took his chance. He swung his arm around, squeezing the trigger in his fist and loosing a storm of silver blades in the direction of the gangster's head. The flechettes struck home, ripping into the man's face, flensing flesh from bone as the relentless stream of razor-sharp metal turned the man's head into a bloody pulp. He was dead in seconds. The Ghost didn't wait to see how the others would react. Still crouching, he reached inside his trench coat and pulled the cord that ignited the canisters strapped to the backs of his boots. There was a flash of bright yellow light, and then the Ghost shot into the air, up the side of the wall toward a windowsill. He howled in agony as he realized, too late, that the canisters weren't adjusted properly. The hungry flames scorched his ankles through the tough hide of his boots. He could feel his skin bubbling and blistering under the intense heat. Anything, though, was better than death.

Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind him. Mickey had found his automatic, and his confidence. But it had come too late. Using the wall to spin himself around, the Ghost kicked his legs out and propelled himself through the second-story window, covering his head with his arms so that the splintering glass wouldn't lacerate his face. He shot into the dark room beyond, striking his head hard against the ceiling. Dazed, he reached inside his jacket, pulled the cord, and fell, with a loud, painful bump, to the floor. By the remains of the window, tiny flames were licking at the edges of the curtains like mischievous imps. He lay there on his back for a moment, breathing hard. The room was dark and devoid of life. The backs of his legs were agony, and he had a pain deep in his stomach were the moss man had struck him the blow. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

Then, rolling onto his side, he scrambled to his feet, using the back of a sofa as leverage, and began to hobble-painfully-toward the door. He had to get out of there before Mickey sent the moss golems after him. He was in no fit state to continue the fight. He presumed the apartment must belong to the shopkeeper, and felt a momentary surge of guilt. He'd failed. He'd been unable to help the man. But it wasn't over yet. He'd be back, and the Roman's men would know vengeance. For now, though, he had to find his way back to his apartment before any other of the Roman's goons discovered he was hurt. He was already sure the mob boss had half of the city looking for him, and he didn't want to get caught out in the open unprepared.

A moment later he had crossed the room, opened the internal door, and slipped out into the dark passage beyond, heading for the rooftops, and home.