James Axler – Stoneface

Jak was in the process of pouring coffee into his cup. As Phil’s fingers brushed the Tec-10, the pot and cup fell from his hands. Long before they struck the floor, a black leaf-bladed throwing knife was in his right hand. He threw it, with a blurring snap of wrist and forearm.

The blade pierced the back of Phil’s hand, the razor point slicing through the palm and pinioning it to his upper thigh. His splayed fingers contorted, like the fluttering wings of a butterfly transfixed by a pin.

Before the three other sec men could react, Krysty, Jak, J.B. and Doc were on their feet, overturning the table. They flipped it toward the counter, smashing it against the four men, making a wooden sandwich with a human fill.

One of the sec men managed to draw his blaster. His first few shots crashed through the window and killed a drowsy, unsuspecting merchant who was opening his stall across the street.

The sec man’s breath had been driven out of him by the table edge, and he tried to adjust his aim to find the proper range. Another knife appeared magically in Jak’s fist. The blade inscribed a short arc, and the sec man dropped his blaster, his jugular jetting blood.

J.B. scooped the Tec-10 from the floor, but the sagging weight of the throat-slashed man, coupled with the force exerted by his three companions, flipped the table outward, bottom edge first. The wooden disk slammed squarely against J.B.’s face. Still bent over, the Armorer staggered sideways, glasses hanging askew, crimson gushing from his nostrils.

Roaring in wordless fury, a sec man flung the table away from him and closed on Krysty. He was either too drunk with rage or humiliation to draw his weapon.

Krysty braced herself, ducking a roundhouse right that ruffled her hair, and she slashed savagely upward with the stiffened edge of her right hand. Her hand chopped into her attacker’s throat like the stroke of an ax. The sec man spit a hideous gurgle of pain and surprise, and he stumbled backward against the counter.

Clutching at his throat for a moment, his eyes went wide and wild. Dark vermilion erupted from between his slack lips, and he fell, first to his knees, then to his face.

At the same instant Krysty was avoiding the sec man’s blow, Phil yanked the throwing knife from his hand and clawed for his blaster. Fingers slick with blood, they couldn’t gain an immediate purchase on the grip.

As Phil fumbled, Doc snapped away the ebony sheath of his swordstick and assumed the classic posture of the fencer. “I told you I would remember what you called me, sir,” he said, blue eyes alight.

“Fuck you, you old prick!” Phil grated. His injured hand finally closed over the butt of his weapon.

Doc lunged forward, the point of the rapier sinking into, then quickly withdrawing from, the left side of Phil’s chest. A stream of blood followed it. Grunting his disbelief, Phil covered the wound with his left hand. Scarlet squirted from between his fingers. He raised the Tec-10 with his right hand.

“You old son of a bitch,” he croaked, his unsteady hand trying to put Doc’s body before the barrel of his blaster. “You’ve chilled me.”

” ‘Priscian a little scratched,’ ” Doc quoted. “Twill serve.’ King Lear , act 4, scene 2, I believe.”

Phil leaned against the counter for support. Jak reached out, wrested the pistol from his nerveless fingers and aimed it toward the final sec man, who was breaking for the door in a panicked run. The man screamed shrilly for help.

Before Jak squeezed the trigger, J.B. fired from a half-crouched position, following the sound of pounding feet.

The sec man pitched through the doorway and into the street, his back blown out by a dozen 9 mm rounds.

It was over in thirty seconds. J.B. straightened, adjusting his spectacles. Blood ran unnoticed from his nose. Jak, dangling the blaster in his hand, looked over the carnage of bodies and grunted, “Stupes. Triple stupes.”

“And so are we if we stay here,” Krysty said, swiftly taking the Tec-10 from her assailant. “All we can do now is make a run for the compound.”