Hellfire Drop (Brimstone Cycle Book 2)(5)
CHAPTER FOUR
Disappointed, but unwilling to just stand in the bathroom and wait for the mercenary to find me, I turn on my heel and head back outside to the diner at large. When I exit, I can see that the mood I’d fled earlier has intensified in my absence. The mercenary before is now inside of the diner, his hands held loose and ready at his sides but pretending the read the oversized menu on the wall. It’s the kind of stance you’d see in a gunslinger from the wild, wicked west, or their modern equivalent in a black market’s back alley.
I’m not alone in having noticed the stance, because the table of deputies, situated near the window to my right, gave up the pretense of maintaining their jokes and farewell party. Most of the men are now turned around in their chairs, and a few of them are even standing up on their feet. The oldest amongst them, the retiring man who I now recognize as a sheriff from the badge pinned to his chest, has his shoulders squared and is facing the mercenary.
The two are silent for a moment, before the sheriff starts to speak. Like the other deputies, his accent is Creole layered on thick. He uses a few tried and true phrases that small town lawmen like to roll out, including my favorite, “We don’t like trouble makers around here.”
For the most part, the mercenary ignores him, and continues to stand just inside the diner’s doorway. Instead, the man’s eyes and attention are again focused on me. He glances over to the doorway leading to the restrooms at my back that I’d tried to escape through earlier. When his gaze returns to me, he nods, his face is empty, and turns around without speaking. The diner doors make a metallic sound as they close behind him.
Satisfied with the quiet that follows, the sheriff lets out a chuckle and turns back to his table. He looks relieved and more than a little full of himself.
“That was damn weird, huh?” says one of the deputies at the table. This one is young, his skin still peppered with bright splotches of acne.
“Damn weird I can deal with.” Says the old sheriff. ”But I’ll be damned If I have to deal with a scuffle on my retirement da--”
A flash of light and clap of thunder cut off his words.
The sound and flash light up the window facing the parking lot outside. Adrenaline shoves its way through my veins, and my heartbeat spikes from a low rumble to a jack hammer sprint. The patrons of the diner flinch away from the blast and throw themselves to the floor. The clumsiness still clinging to my limbs slows me when I try to follow suit, but even then, flatten myself to the floor not far behind anyone else.
Breath ragged, I press myself against the tile flooring of the diner, waiting for another blast to come. While I’m there, I realize that what I’d heard hadn’t been a clap of thunder, but a roll.
That matters.
Explosions, no matter how large or how small, have a character that’s unique to their source. Gunshots can sometimes come out as sharp pops or even loud barks that at close quarters slap at faces and make ears ring. Grenades are different, and their roars are stretched out over longer periods of time. Bombs are the loudest, and come with the most variations. Some begin and end with a lone, deep pulse of sound while others, the weaker ones fueled by gasoline instead of C4, tend to ramble on and expand even while their own echos are forming.
This explosion, the one outside of the window, is more like the latter. I look up at the window to see that it’s still standing - which means that whatever blew had more in common with a gas tank lighting or a propane canister igniting than anything spawned by a military grade ammunition or bastardized IED. I’ve seen enough of the former while testing out weapons on abandoned cars for clients operating out of slums. I’ve also encountered my share of the latter - mostly when those same clients became angry, or greedy, about the terms of our deals.
If this was a gas explosion, as the ongoing glow and lack of dust indicate, then it means that whoever set up the blast either lacked the knowledge to make a very large boom, or the time to place such a device where it would have the most use. The timing of the explosion, mere seconds after the mercenary had stepped out of sight, leaves me with little doubt that he was behind it, and rushed enough to try improvising.
There’s a silver lining to that last bit, I think to myself, as someone in the diner lets out a scream. While a man who can improvise is a dangerous thing, it still pays best to have a plan that’s been well thought out and prepared over time.
I can survive this, I know it, but to do so, I’ll first need a few tools of my own. While a gun would be the first choice of most of my normal clientele, I’m personally a fan of fire. It’s good for more than distractions or causing pain. When you’re like me, and have said yes to a devil and one of their deals, fire also offers something far more valuable.
Freedom.
With a flame, one close enough to grab in my hands, I’ll be able to drop through hell and land elsewhere in the world. I may not have anywhere specific in mind, but anywhere is better than what’s happening in this diner.
Goal in mind, I start crawling from table to table, looking for a lighter. While I do this, I notice that most of the deputies are getting to their feet, still others start crowding near the window to look outside. The front parking lot holds a car that been completely enveloped in flame. The fire raging outside is too far for my uses, but still close enough to make the deputies sweat.
Two of the lawmen start walking towards the door, shielding their eyes as they come closer to the blaze.