James Axler – Exile to Hell

And now he was ordered to arrange a murder, and not just any murder, but a veteran Magistrate’s. Grant was known and feared in the Pits, as well as in the Outlands. Kane’s rep was just as fearsome. Only last year, a gaggle of triple-stupe jolt-walkers had tried to pull an ambush on a Mag squad led by Kane and Grant.

Teague shut the panel, muttering, “Oh, fuck me, fuck me” like a litany. Sweat slid down his face as he lumbered to the east corner of the room. He suddenly exuded a raw, animal stench of fear. From her place on the floor, Domi watched him with wide eyes, wrinkling her nose at the odor.

Grunting, the Pit boss squatted down and levered up a loose flagstone. From a recess dug into the dirt and reinforced with strips of tin, he pulled out a flat black case. Straightening up, he carried it over to the tabletop. Undoing the latches, he opened the top of the case. Resting within hollowed-out foam cushions was a pair of automatic hand-blasters.

He had found the matched set of mint-condition mini-Uzi submachine guns waiting for him in his quarters one night last year. He assumed his faceless benefactor/commander had arranged the delivery. Strapped on the underside of the lid were four full-capacity box magazines. Each magazine held twenty-five 9 mm parabellum rounds.

The blasters were worth a fortune, especially to roamers, but Teague knew better than to sell them or think seriously about it. Gun possession in the Pits was a mandatory death sentence, even crappy home-forged muzzle loaders.

Domi laughed from behind him, a musical sound of wicked delight. He turned slightly. She had climbed to her feet and stood there with her hands on her flaring hips, red-sheathed legs wide apart. Mildly he asked, “What do you find funny, sweetheart?”

“You,” she said. “Turn me in, huh? Me with bogus chip, you with high-tower tech and blasters. Mags finds out, you get big-time dead, Pit finds out, even bigger-time dead. You’re Mag spy first, I betcha. Pit boss second. Term of my service over , lizard dick! Term of your service starts now!”

Teague put his hand over one of the Uzis. “This isn’t the time to renegotiate our agreement, Domi.”

She laughed again scornfully. “Time is right. So pucker up and kiss my lily-white ass.”

Teague moved. He whipped the frame of the blaster across the side of Domi’s head. She didn’t cry out, but she careened across the room, slammed into the wall, bounced from it and fell to the floor in a flailing tangle of arms and legs. She managed to catch herself with her hands, but she hung her head, blood streaming from a laceration in her scalp. The crimson flow stood out starkly against her white skin.

Stepping over to her, the Pit boss gripped her by the hair and hauled her to her knees, yanking her head back at a painful angle. She was dazed but still conscious, and she didn’t resist when he inserted the short barrel of the Uzi into her mouth.

“Do you want to end your service right now?” he hissed. Spittle strings drooled from his lips. “Tell me, you goddamn bleached-out gaudy slut. Tell me!”

Domi shook her headat least as much as his cruel grip allowed.

“Then you’ll do what I tell you to, won’t you?”

Domi tried to nod, her front teeth clinking on the metal of the blaster’s barrel.

Teague abruptly released her, and she sagged to the floor, hand pressing against the wound on her head. Blood oozed slowly between her fingers.

Teague wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand, then realized his pants were about to slip down his hips. He had forgotten that he’d untied the drawstring. Holding them up with one hand, he gestured with the mini-Uzi in the other. “Get up. Clean yourself up.” He paused and whispered, “Sweetheart.”

Chapter Twelve

Kane exhaled a wreath of smoke. “They used to call places like this ‘pestholes.'”

“What do they call them now?” Boon was eager to know.

“Pestholes,” answered Grant, allowing the smoke to dribble out of his nostrils in fitful spurts.