The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(38)

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be brave for his own benefit or ours, but given how much blood he was leaving on the concrete, he was anything but all right. His clock was running down.

The last living mercenary looked from me to Eric to Leroy, and to the rifles in their laps.

“You wanna stay down,” I told him. “Eric, if this prick moves, shoot him in both hands and then kneecap him. I need him alive.”

“Done deal,” Eric said, looking like he meant it.

A walkie-talkie clipped to one of the dead men’s belts squawked to life.

“Containment team report,” Angus Caine’s voice snapped over a bed of static. “We heard gunshots. Report in.”

I pushed myself to my feet, still feeling lightheaded and sick to my stomach from the gas. I coughed wetly into my sleeve and unhooked the walkie-talkie.

“Sorry,” I said. “They can’t come to the phone right now. Well, three of them can’t, unless you know a good necromancer. Still got a live one here, though. Want to talk about a trade?”

Angus’s voice rumbled like motor oil poured over fine gravel. “Prove it.”

I held out the walkie-talkie toward the merc on the floor. “Here, say hi to your boss.”

“Sir!” the merc said. “I knew the risks when I went in, sir! Do not negotiate with terrorists—”

That was all I needed. I mustered what little strength I had and kicked him square in the gut. He went fetal, groaning.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” I said into the walkie-talkie, “but ‘terrorist’ is a new one. Here’s the deal, Major. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who callously throws his men’s lives away. I think you will negotiate, especially if getting soldier-boy back doesn’t cost you a thing.”

The other end went silent for a minute. I hoped he wasn’t getting ready to lead a full-on charge, because we wouldn’t survive another fight.

“Let’s talk,” he said. “Come up to the lobby.”

I handed the walkie-talkie to Eric and said, “You two stay here. I’ll see if I can swing us safe passage.”

“Hey,” Eric said as I walked away. I looked back, and he gestured to one of the fallen rifles. “Aren’t you gonna take a gun?”

I shook my head, showing him my empty palms.

“No guns,” I said. “Trust me. I’m scarier without one.”

Truth was, I was still red-eyed and throat-burned from the tear gas, and I felt like I’d been used for a punching bag. My joints ached, and it was all I could do to keep from heaving up what little was left in my stomach. I could probably pull off a cantrip or two, but right now serious sorcery was as far out of my league as a French supermodel. I’d have to fall back on the most powerful weapon I had.

Bluffing.

The doors at the end of the hall, leading into the lobby, caught my eye. I stopped just short of setting my hand against the glossy metal push plate, my palm hovering an inch away. It was wet. They’d painted the steel with a heaping helping of the Missionary’s happy juice. Cute move.

I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back, and lifted my chin. Then I kicked the door open and strode out like a gunslinger.

Angus wasn’t alone, standing in the middle of the lobby. He had a six-man squad at his back, and every one of their barrels dropped a bead on me, ready to turn me into confetti on his command. Nedry and the Missionary stood off to the side in their white lab coats. Nedry clutched his fractured hand and glared, while the Missionary looked too confident for his own good.

“Hey there, buddy!” the Missionary said with a bright smile. I could feel his aura probing at mine, trying to find a way into my mind. I scrounged up a spark of magic and gave him a wall of psychic iron in return. His eyes went wide and he flinched, drawing a curious look from Nedry.

“Now what?” Angus growled. “Did you think I was just going to let you walk out, free as a mockingbird? I don’t see a hostage with you.”

I shook my head. “Nope. The hostage is back in the cell, with my friends. My friends who got that zombie shit out of their systems by starving themselves for three days straight. They’re really hungry now, and they’re really pissed off. If I’m not back there in ten minutes, I can’t promise your soldier’s safety. Go ahead, call back there.”

He nodded to the mercenary at his side, who took a walkie-talkie from his belt and held it up for Angus.

“This is Major Caine,” he said. “Who’s back there with my man? Report!”

Eric’s chuckle crackled over the static. “Nobody here but us chickens,” he said.

I nodded. “See? Not alone. Not by a long shot. And if I die, your man dies, so let’s drop the posturing and talk business.”

“Just shoot him,” Nedry said, petulant. “Clark and I can get your man back.”

I glanced over at them. “Clark? That’s your name? I was calling you the Missionary all this time.”

He flashed his perfect white teeth. “Gosh, thanks, buddy! That’s quite the bold moniker, and don’t think I don’t appreciate—”

“Now shut the f*ck up,” I said. “Both of you. Grown-ups are talking.”

“Who are you?” Angus said. He rested his hands on his belt.